I Would, Wouldn't You?
by nonadhesiveness
Summary: "Just because she says nothing, it doesn't mean that she doesn't want to." It wasn't the first time that Elizabeth had been objectified, so why did this comedian's comments cut so deep? On birthdays and grief; respect and shifting attitudes; being more than just a girl and the importance of male allies.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** "Just because she says nothing, it doesn't mean that she doesn't want to." It wasn't the first time that Elizabeth had been objectified, so why did this comedian's comments cut so deep? On birthdays and grief; respect and shifting attitudes; being more than just a girl and the importance of male allies.

 **A/N:** So I'm releasing three stories at once. I hope that at least one of them is to your taste. I could have spent months revising each one, but I wanted to get them out there before I go away for research (sans internet)—and before the new season too. Enjoy!

* * *

 **I Would, Wouldn't You?**

 **Chapter One**

 **Day One**

 **Henry**

The children hunkered over the table in the dining room. Elbows to the wood, cellphones in hands. The tap of fingers against keypads and the whoosh and whistle of apps lifted into the air and cut through the murmur of the kitchen television; its hum like the rise and fall of a lullaby in the background.

Henry squeezed into the gap between Alison and Stevie, and placed the pasta bake down in the middle of the table. The girls leant to either side, making space for him, but their gazes clung to their phones. On the opposite side of the table, Jason glanced up at the pyrex dish for half a second. Then— _chime_. And once more, he smirked down at the screen.

Henry slung the oven gloves over the back of his chair, the one nearest the kitchen. He sat down and looked to each of his children in turn. Nothing. "Okay, I know it's not exactly fine dining, but a little bit of appreciation would be nice."

"Sorry," Alison said. She offered him a small smile as she placed her phone down next to her glass of water. Stevie and Jason muttered what might have been apologies too, but they had yet to look up from their screens.

Henry took the serving spoon and helped himself to a scoop before he passed it on to Alison. Steam rolled off the penne pasta and molten cheese, and the aroma of sweet garlic melded with the richness of tomatoes spiralled up into the air.

Alison nudged Stevie. Stevie pocketed her phone and then took the serving spoon. She looked to Henry. "Is this vegetarian cheese?"

"No," Henry said, and he paused, fork halfway to his mouth, "but the meat isn't exactly vegetarian either."

Stevie shook her head to herself and gave a terse sigh.

"I didn't know you were back to being vegetarian," Henry said. How was he meant to keep up? It was easier to track terrorist cells than to follow the various dietary requirements of his eldest daughter.

"Nevermind." Stevie filled her plate and then left the spoon in the dish for Jason.

Jason snatched it up, dumped a scoopful on his plate and then paused. Spoon poised over the dish, he looked to Henry. "Is Mom coming back?"

"Eventually," Henry said. And he chased a piece of penne around the plate.

Jason rolled his eyes. "I meant, is she coming back for dinner?"

"Not tonight."

Jason scraped out the rest of the pasta bake. When Henry shot him a look, he gave a sharp shrug. "What? I'm hungry."

Henry shook his head to himself. Never underestimate the appetite of a teenage boy.

He took a swig of red wine; the bitterness of tannin cut through the sweetness of the tomato sauce on his tongue. The glass clinked as he set it back down on the table, and Alison's gaze darted to her phone. Henry paused. Eyes wide, he stared at his daughter. Okay, social media might be an obsession, but at what point did it get Pavlovian?

"So," he said, "seeing as Mom's not here, it gives us a chance to talk about her birthday—"

Stevie's eyes lit up, a kind of mischievous glint. "The big 5-0." And she made a gesture like a shooting star exploding in front of her.

Henry swallowed. "I wouldn't remind her of that if you want to reach the big 2-4." He mimicked her action. Then he set his fork down against the edge of his plate and folded his hands beneath his chin. "She's given me very specific instructions. No balloons, no streamers, no silly string, no mention of the numbers 'five' or 'zero', no surprises of any kind, no—"

"No fun?" Jason cut in.

Henry paused, mouth open. Her stipulations did rather limit things.

"So what _can_ we do?" Alison asked. She raked her fork over her meal, spreading it out across her plate, and then she looked up and met Henry's eye.

"She just wants a nice, quiet family dinner," Henry said.

Jason frowned. "So what we do every night?" He gestured to the four of them sat around the table. "Unless of course there's another international crisis and she fails to show up." He jerked his head towards the vacant seat at the opposite end.

"Actually—" Stevie paused, and she raised the back of her hand to her lips as she swallowed her mouthful. "—Mom's working on the UK trade deal tonight. It's a big thing post-Brexit."

Jason shrugged. "Same difference." And he shovelled three pieces of pasta into his mouth in quick succession, a thread of cheese escaping down his chin.

"How's that anywhere near the same?" Stevie said, her brow pinched.

"Because it's Britain, so it's international—" Jason chomped away on the pasta whilst he drew circles with his fork in the air. "—and when it falls apart, it'll be a crisis."

An incredulous expression spread across Stevie's face, and she opened her mouth to speak again, but Henry cut her off. "Getting a little off topic here, guys." He rocked forward on the chair. "Look, your mom's not exactly thrilled about—"

"Getting old?" Jason smirked.

Henry shot Jason a warning look and raised his voice. "Your mother's not old." He flattened his palms against the table. "Can we please just try and make the day enjoyable for her? Without mentioning age, one foot in the grave, over the hill—"

"So one happy birthday with a good measure of censorship?" Jason said, and he raised his glass of water to his lips.

Henry's gaze steeled on him. "If you want to get through it alive, then yes." He picked up his fork again and pushed the rest of the pasta to the edge of the plate before he nudged a piece onto the tines. "Now, before you all disappear back to your lives…or your phones—" _Was there a difference?_ "…how was everyone's day?"

"Seriously?" Jason snorted. "We're still doing that?"

"What?" Henry said. "Having conversations? Yeah, Jase, we're still doing that."

"But talking as a form of communication will be obsolete soon anyway. We'll all have headsets—" Jason gesticulated, fingers swirling at the side of his head. "—that translate thoughts directly into signals that can be transmitted to whoever we want, totally bypassing the need for speech."

Henry swallowed. His eyes widened. "Well, that's a scary thought." He took a long sip of wine. "Anyone have something a little less Orwellian to talk about?"

"A squirrel got into Russell Jackson's office this morning," Stevie said. She popped a piece of pasta into her mouth and chewed it over slowly. "Turns out he's not a fan of rodents."

* * *

Evening. Henry rested back against the headboard, a book open in one hand. The bedside lamp furnished the room with a hazy orange glow that diffused into the darkness of the corridor. He turned the page, and the mellow rasp of paper curling over paper resonated through the room.

A prickle of hairs swept up the back of his neck. He glanced up. Elizabeth was leant in the doorway, her arms slung over her chest as she watched him. The periwinkle of her shirt shimmered with each rise and fall of her breath, a pop of colour to parallel her eyes. She smiled at him, the barest inflection of her lips. "Hey, you."

"Hey, babe." Henry stuffed the bookmark between the pages and set the book down on top of the stack on the bedside table. He opened his arms to her, but instead of joining him, she tapped one finger against the corner of her lips, and her smile widened.

"You've got a little something…"

Henry frowned. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Elizabeth chuckled. "Wrong side." She padded across the floor. "Here." She cupped his cheek and brushed her thumb over the corner of his lips, her eyes locked on his.

Definitely periwinkle. Though perhaps a little flat; drained of their usual spark. Tiredness, maybe. Or the other thing. The thought tugged at his chest, but before he could ask, she leant in and captured his lips in a sweet kiss.

He tangled his fingers through her hair, the strands slipping over the back of his hand. The mattress dipped beside him as he drew her closer and she perched on the edge of their bed. "Missed you." He nipped at her lower lip, and then sucked gently, just enough for her mouth to sigh open and for her tongue to meet his.

When she pulled back, she ran her tongue over her teeth. "You taste like garlic."

Henry laughed. "I might have gone a little overboard with the seasoning at dinner."

"You don't say." She stood up and walked over to the chest of drawers, and as she pulled out a pair of pyjamas—blue striped, with a shirt that lacked its top button after a little Sunday morning haste—she shot him a look. "I've had less overpowering kisses from a frenchman."

"I hope not," he said and then frowned. Overpowering as in garlicky or overpowering as in… "Wait. What?"

The spark in her eyes returned for a burst, a single wink. "I've already said too much." Then she retreated to the bathroom, leaving him to ponder that whilst she readied herself for bed.

Henry shook his head to himself and then picked up the book again. When Elizabeth returned ten or so pages later, she sat on the stool in front of the dresser and pumped a dollop of hand lotion into her palm. Henry placed the book down on the bedside table, then scrambled under the covers and propped himself up on one elbow. He watched her. She massaged the cream into her hands first, and then rubbed the excess into the soles of her feet. Unaware of his gaze—or at least seemingly so; sometimes it was hard to tell quite what she was thinking—the corners of her lips had turned downwards and there was light pinch in her brow.

"How are you feeling?" Henry asked, a gruff whisper that sprawled through the silence of the room.

"About getting old?" She lowered her foot and then stooped forward, hands clutched in front of her, gaze trained on the floor.

"You're not old," he said.

Her gaze darted to his, eyebrows arched.

His heartbeat pattered. _Say something, anything_. "You'll always be younger than me."

She gave a soft snort, and the corners of her lips flicked into a smile. There then gone.

His pulse eased. Crisis averted. "I meant about the other thing, but yes, your birthday too, if that's bothering you."

"The other thing," Elizabeth repeated. She rose to her feet and peeled back the covers, her movements strained as though each muscle had been tethered to a piece of string. "You mean the thing that I'm trying desperately hard not to think about?" Pain snuck through the cracks of her carefully levelled voice, and it made Henry's heart ache. She climbed into the bed and lay on her side, her back to him. With the duvet bunched around her, she let out a sigh, no more than a wisp of breath.

Henry turned off the bedside lamp. Then he nestled behind her and pressed a kiss to the tip of her shoulder before he nuzzled the nape of her neck and filled his lungs with the heady scent of coconut and the subtle depths of vanilla. He wrapped his arm across her waist, palm flat against her stomach. "I'm here if you want to talk."

Her hand covered his own, and she traced her fingertips up and down his fingers. A featherlike touch. "Isn't it a bit a self-indulgent?" she said, and her voice hitched. "I mean, it _was_ thirty-five years ago." Her throat clunked as she swallowed. "Your parents—"

Henry shook his head. "That's different." She must realise that, or perhaps it was just a way to avoid the conversation. Over the years she had become so adept, forcing him to coax the words out of her. The only sure way was to shut her and Will in a room together and wait for the explosion, but the words that they hurled weren't the ones that they needed to use.

Elizabeth's fingers stilled. When she spoke again, her tone had lifted, but it did little to conceal the clag of emotion beneath. "The talks with the British went well. It'll take forever to get a solid deal in place, but we've laid the groundwork at least, and hopefully we'll be able to make an announcement tomorrow, so long as the White House signs off."

"That's good, babe." He kissed the spot behind her ear, and she gave an involuntary shiver that rippled through him. "It's a big win."

"It doesn't feel like it," she said, and her shoulders tensed. "It feels like…"

Henry held her. His breath stilled. He waited. Sometimes these glimpses into her thoughts felt like waiting for Manhattanhenge—the precise moment when the sunset aligned with the streets of Manhattan. Rare, precious, sacred. A single breath might chase them away.

She shook her head, and the wisps of her hair tickled his cheek. "Nevermind."

"Tell me." He squeezed her, pulling her firm against his chest. And though it was a risk, he had to say something before that sun had set—"Tell me, or I'll start asking questions about the frenchman you've been kissing."

Elizabeth chuckled, a soft sound, like the ruffle of a wave.

It washed through him, a summer tide that warmed his heart. He loosened his grip around her waist, and she rolled over to face him.

She rested her forehead against his chest, head tucked beneath his chin. "It feels like everything I do—everything I achieve—is tainted by the fact that they never got to see it." She swallowed, and she dragged her fingertips up and down his side. "I…" she began, but her breath hitched. Her hand stilled.

A moment later, hot tears dampened the cotton of Henry's shirt and clung to his skin. He held her tight as he rubbed her back and peppered kisses to her crown. His chest ached, something deep tugging at his soul. What could he do? How could he take away this pain? But there were no words, no salve, no magic spell; only arms to hold her, and ears to listen, and love enough to absorb every last tear.

She let out a shuddering breath and pushed herself away from his chest. She rolled onto her back, eyes closed, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. Her chest rose, then froze, and then juddered each time that it fell. Stray tears rolled down her cheeks; their tracks glistened in the night. Henry took hold of the hand that rested against her stomach, but her fingers remained limp against his own.

"Elizabeth?" he whispered.

* * *

 **Elizabeth**

 **1983**

The lamplight spilled out from Elizabeth's bedroom and chased away the shadows on the landing as she crept towards the top of the stairs, the empty tumbler in hand. The faintest hum of music escaped the gap beneath Will's door—though it was long after lights-out—and it drifted through the hallway. The soft tune snaked its way after her as she tiptoed down the stairs, taking care to avoid the creaky fourth step from the bottom.

The fragrance of rosemary and garlic still suffused the air, permeating the lower floor of the house. Elizabeth padded towards the kitchen, the wooden floorboards cool beneath her soles. The door was ajar, and a golden glow smouldered out through the gap, like the last licks of a fire before it dwindled into the night. Hushed voices unfurled into the hallway—her parents. Elizabeth clutched the tumbler tighter, her fingers sweating against the glass. She extended her hand, ready to knock, but then stopped.

"I know that she's gifted but that's beside the point," her father said.

Elizabeth froze. Her heartbeat thumped and echoed through her chest. She shouldn't be listening; this conversation was private, not meant for her to hear.

"Then what is your point?" her mother said.

She turned back to the stairs.

"She's a girl."

Elizabeth stopped, and it felt as though her heart had stopped too.

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't encourage her," her mother said.

"No," her father said, and he dragged out the word, "but it does mean that we need to set her expectations accordingly." A pause. The _thud, thud, thud_ in Elizabeth's chest filled the silence. "The world isn't fair; it won't care what grades she gets. The fact is that she'll never be given the same opportunities or respect that a man in her position would."

"So you think we should tell her to aim lower?" A certain incredulity stained her mother's tone.

"I think we should tell her to aim for a path in life where she actually stands a chance." Her father's voice rose, and Elizabeth sank back into the shadows of the hallway. "What's the point in pitting herself against men? If she just stuck to things more suitable for a girl, at least she won't end up disappointed." A sharp breath. "I know times are changing, but some things will always be the same. I mean, your sister has a career, but is she really treated like an equal?"

A weighted silence. When her mother spoke, her voice coaxed. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Pause. "Just…Sometimes I think: Why couldn't Will have her talent and ambition? Then at least he'd have a chance to use it."

Elizabeth's grip on the glass slipped, and she fumbled to catch it. She dropped to her knees, and her fingers wrapped around it just in time, but the bottom of the tumbler still bumped against the floor with a thud. Her gaze darted to the kitchen door. The conversation had fallen silent. She turned and scurried up the stairs, stumbling as she barely remembered to avoid the fourth step. She dived onto her bed and pulled the duvet up around her ears. She waited. Her heartbeat measured out the silence. Moments later, footsteps plodded past her room, and then down the corridor there was a _rap-tap_ , followed by—"Will, music off. Now."

* * *

 **Present Day**

 **Henry**

Elizabeth let out a shuddering breath and pushed herself away from Henry's chest. She rolled onto her back, eyes closed, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. Her chest rose, then froze, and then juddered each time that it fell. Stray tears rolled down her cheeks; their tracks glistened in the night. Henry took hold of the hand that rested against her stomach, but her fingers remained limp against his own.

"Elizabeth?" he whispered, and he clutched her hand.

Elizabeth opened her eyes. The sheen of tears gleamed; the periwinkles caught in a summer shower. She lowered her hand from her forehead and let it fall to the bed. She swallowed, and her throat bobbed. Then she turned to look at him. She searched his eyes, her brow furrowed, and perhaps whatever she was looking for wasn't there to be found.

"Talk to me." He caressed her cheek, and with his thumb, he brushed away the last trace of tears. He leant in, paused, and when she didn't turn away, he touched his lips to hers, more of a flutter than a kiss. He nuzzled her nose. Her breaths came in hot puffs against his lips, and he breathed each one in, as if they were more vital than oxygen. "Elizabeth."

Softer than a whisper lost to the breeze. "I never got to prove them wrong."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 **Day Two**

 **Elizabeth**

Sunlight streamed in through the net curtains. Elizabeth snatched a white blouse from the closet and wrestled it on, followed by a plain black pinafore dress. She grabbed a pair of heels, slung their backs over her fingers and then hurried out into the hallway. She stopped. "Watch," she said and dashed back into the bedroom, dumping the shoes at the foot of the bed.

The replica of her father's watch waited atop the dresser. She slipped it on and fumbled with the catch. One glance at the tick-tick-ticking hands and her heart lurched. _Thirty-five years._ It felt as though the breath had been knocked from her lungs. People had always said that as time passed, she would think about them less often and the pain would fade. And sure enough, the thoughts had subsided, but in a way that hurt more, as each thought that did arise reminded her that—for a moment—she had forgotten. And what kind of person could forget?

 _Ten minutes._ Elizabeth picked up her shoes and raced down the stairs. The aroma of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon hitting the pan greeted her as she strode down the last step into the kitchen. At the table, Jason was tucking into a bacon sandwich—a dollop of red sauce escaped the bread and splashed against the plate—whilst the girls each shovelled spoonfuls of cheerios into their mouths.

"Good morning." She waved at them, but they only mustered a vague murmur of ' _Morning_ ' in reply as they stared at their phone and tablet screens. Her smile slackened. She turned to Henry, stood at the hob; he wore an apron over his shirt and dress pants to protect him from the spray of bacon fat as he turned the rashers over in the pan. "You know, this kind of invisibility would have been really useful in the CIA."

Henry chuckled. Then he pointed the tongs at a bacon sandwich and mug of coffee that sat at the end of the kitchen island. "Eat something before you have to run."

Elizabeth squeezed into the gap behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. She lingered there a moment and breathed in the faint scent of cologne. "Sorry about last night."

Henry reached round and his hand found her hip. "Don't be."

She kissed him again, this time a peppering between the shoulder blades, and then she let go and padded over to the table, picking up the plate and mug on her way. She set them down in the place next to Stevie's and pulled out the—

"Oh God." Stevie dropped her spoon into the bowl with a clatter, and the milk splashed over the side and spattered the tabletop. She scrolled rapidly down the screen of her phone.

Elizabeth clutched the back of her daughter's chair and peered over her shoulder at the blur of the Twitter feed. "What is it?"

Stevie twisted round and glanced up at Elizabeth, her eyes wide. "There's something trending about you on Twitter."

Elizabeth's stomach tripped. "Well, that sounds ominous."

Henry joined them. He placed his own bacon sandwich down on the table and then stood with his hand against the small of Elizabeth's back. Jason and Alison scrolled down the screens of their tablets too, breakfast forgotten. The further they scrolled, the more their expressions hardened; Alison's brow pinched whilst Jason's lips drew into a tight pout.

The tips of Elizabeth's fingers prickled. What, exactly, had happened now?

"Apparently, Russ Freyton," Stevie said, and Elizabeth frowned. _Who?_ "—the comedian—mentioned you on his show last night."

"Isn't that the guy who's always taking a stab at your policies?" Henry said as he rubbed Elizabeth's back.

"Well, he's moved on from policies now," Stevie said, and her cheeks pinkened. She hit the play button on a video and passed Elizabeth the phone.

Elizabeth stared down at the screen as it played a clip from the comedian's show. His voice blared through the speaker. "Some women over thirty-five are still attractive." At the jeers from the audience, he held up his hands. "Now, I know what you're thinking, but hear me out. For instance, let's look at a favourite of the show, Secretary of State Elizabeth McCord." An image of Elizabeth flashed up on screen—one taken from a profile piece that had garnered mixed interest due to the cut of her blouse. "Apparently she's turning fifty soon—fifty! But those legs…mmmh!" The camera zoomed in on her snug black skirt and then panned down to her patent stilettos. "I'd do her, wouldn't you?"

Elizabeth's jaw clenched. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, and the strap of her watch slipped down her wrist. _She'll never be given the same respect that a man in her position would._ Thirty-five years later: Was he right?

"The video's gone viral," Stevie said, her voice softer now, "and the hashtag ' _I would, wouldn't you?_ ' is trending."

Four gazes scalded Elizabeth. Henry's hand skimmed up her back to rest on her shoulder, and he kneaded the tension from her muscles. "Babe?"

Elizabeth flinched. Her eyes snapped open. She turned to him and held up the phone. "Is this what people think when they look at me?" Her voice cracked. "She's old, but I'd still _do_ her."

Henry's grip tightened, and the sorry smile glimmered in his eyes. "Of course not."

Elizabeth snorted. "Well you can hardly talk." She chucked the phone down onto the table.

Henry's hand fell away from her shoulder. He frowned at her, bemused. "What?"

"Well you are—" She gestured at the screen, and her face flooded with heat. "— _doing_ me, so…"

Silence fell over the room. Henry's mouth opened and closed, his eyes wide as he floundered for a response. Elizabeth folded her arms over her chest and bit down on the inside of her cheek. No longer able to meet his eye, her gaze found refuge in the buttons of his shirt.

"Oh, gross." Jason groaned, and his chair scraped over the floor as he pushed himself away from the table. "Why can't you guys be like normal parents, you know, asexual?"

"Hey." Alison swivelled to face her brother whilst her frown deepened. "It's not Mom's fault if some ass decides to objectify her."

"That's not what I meant," Jason said, a squeak to his voice. He gestured between his parents. "I meant…them…you know…" He let out a sharp sigh and held his hands up. "Nevermind." He backed away from the table and snatched up his rucksack from behind the couch, and then slinging the strap over his shoulder, he strode off through the kitchen, the tread of his trainers screeching over the wood.

"Mom, the guy's a total jerk," Stevie said.

"And the millions of people retweeting it?" Elizabeth said, an edge to her voice.

"They don't have a braincell between them." Stevie tugged her lips to one side. She stood up and smoothed out the creases in her dress, and then she grabbed her jacket from the back of the couch and stuffed her phone into her pocket. She squeezed Elizabeth's arm as she bumped her lips against her cheek. "Don't let him get to you."

Elizabeth let out a low snort. _Right, just suck it up, like you always_ do.

Stevie kissed her father's cheek too, and then she dumped her bowl in the sink and scurried off towards the front door.

"Babe?" Henry began.

But Elizabeth shook her head. What words could possibly make _this_ any better? "I need to get going too." She retreated to the bottom of the stairs, one hand holding onto the banister for balance as she tugged her shoes on. "We've got that trade deal announcement this morning…I can't be late."

"It'll blow over," Henry said. His gaze clung to her every move.

Elizabeth nodded. "I know." And she forced a smile. But why did these things have to happen in the first place? She skirted round the edge of the table and planted a kiss to the top of Alison's head. "See you later, Noodle." Then she strode through the kitchen and headed for the front door.

Henry followed, his footsteps just a pace behind the tap of her heels. He leant back against the wall in the entrance hall and folded his arms across his chest, watching her whilst she shrugged on her coat. "I know you don't need this now, what with your birthday and your parents—"

Elizabeth sent him a sharp look. "Henry, I'm fine. Really." She closed the distance between them and rested her hands against his hips as she leant in. A peck to the cheek, just missing the corner of his mouth. "As you said: it'll blow over."

She stepped out onto the porch, and the door clunked shut behind her. The exhaust fumes from the motorcade dulled the crisp air, and dark grey clouds skittered across the sky and stole the sunlight.

"Thank you." She offered a taut smile to the DS agent who opened the car door for her. But it came with a silent question: Had he watched that clip too? _I'd do her, wouldn't you?_

With her coat huddled around her, Elizabeth stared out of the window as the car pulled away from the house, but her gaze lingered in the past. A shadowed hallway, the scent of rosemary and garlic, the kitchen door ajar. _I think we should tell her to aim for a path in life where she actually stands a chance._ Well, she had made it further than her father had ever imagined, but was he right?— _She's a girl…_ And was it her own fault for not setting her expectations accordingly?

* * *

"Good morning." Elizabeth strode into the conference room. The staff who had already gathered stood up from their chairs as she entered, but she waved them back down.

Blake took her bag and helped her out of her coat, and then he whisked both items away into her office whilst she made her way to her seat. A tray of doughnuts—encrusted with sugar, strawberry jam oozing out—stared up at her from the middle of the table. She leant over and grabbed one, along with a paper napkin. Not quite a bacon sandwich, but food at least.

"Good morning, ma'am," Matt said as he walked into the room, a folder tucked beneath one arm. He reached over and helped himself to a doughnut too before he took the seat at her side. He swivelled the chair round to face her as he lifted the doughnut to his lips and concealed his easy smile. "Hey, I didn't know you were turning fifty."

Elizabeth turned to him. "Sorry, what?"

A hush fell over the room, and the staff's gazes darted to Matt before ping-ponging back and forth between him and Elizabeth.

She took a bite of doughnut, sugar clinging to her lips. With her gaze fixed on him, she chewed it over slowly, swallowed and then asked, "Did you think I was older?" She placed the doughnut down on the desk and dusted the sugar from her fingertips.

Matt's smile wavered. "No…I…uh…"

"How old, Matt?" She narrowed her eyes on him. There was something enjoyable about watching him squirm.

Blake leant between them and set a cup of coffee down in front of Elizabeth. As he retreated, he murmured to Matt, "Remember that rule about never discussing a woman's age? This—" He motioned between Matt and Elizabeth. "—is why."

"So?" Elizabeth said. "What are we talking? Fifty-three, fifty-five—" She arched her eyebrows, and her voice sharpened. "—do I _need_ to go any higher?"

Matt pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and she could have sworn there was an actual bead of sweat on his brow. When he spoke, the words were slow, considered. "You don't look a day older than forty-five, ma'am."

"Such a liar." Elizabeth shook her head, but a smile crept to her lips.

On the opposite side of the desk, Jay leant forward and rested his palms against the binder in front of him. "So, shall we get started?" He shot Matt a look. "Before anyone digs a hole all the way to China beneath the State Department." He motioned to Daisy, sat near the head of the table. "Daisy, did you want to…"

Daisy tapped at the screen of her tablet and began to flick down, but Elizabeth held up one hand. Daisy stopped, mouth open.

"If this is about that comment and the hashtag on Twitter," Elizabeth said, "I don't want to hear it." She shook her head to herself and then took a sip of coffee. "It's already wasted enough of my time today." She turned to Kat, who had taken the seat between Daisy and Jay, and sat with her hands folded beneath her chin. "Have we heard back from the White House about the proposals for the trade deal?"

"They signed off this morning," Kat said. But her tone sagged, and a slight furrow nicked her brow.

"That's great news," Elizabeth said. Her gaze swept over each member of staff in turn. "So why does everyone look like the class pet just died?"

"Because," Jay strung out the word, "Russell Jackson is insisting that we hold off on any announcement until after this whole Twitter…" He flapped his hand at Daisy's tablet. "… _thing_ has blown over."

"What?" Elizabeth frowned. "Is one stupid comment really that big a deal?"

"Actually, ma'am—" Daisy's fingers fluttered against the back of the tablet. "—it's morphed."

Elizabeth's stomach gripped. "What do you mean ' _morphed_ '?"

Daisy found sudden interest in the tabletop, as did the others as Elizabeth turned to them too.

"Okay, someone needs to tell me what's going on. Now."

Matt twisted round to face her, his expression just as solemn as the rest of the staff's. "Someone thought it would be fun to start a poll about positions."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Positions?" What the hell did that mean? But now not even Matt would look at her. "Daisy?"

Daisy's eyes widened. And oh God, was that her horrified face? "Um… _sexual_ positions ma'am." The fluttering of her fingers against the tablet grew more agitated. "As in which sexual positions you would prefer if they were to…you know… _do_ you."

Elizabeth choked on her coffee. "Oh my God, seriously?" She extended her arm across the table, fingers snatching at the air as she beckoned for the tablet. With it clutched in one hand, she leant back in her chair and scrolled down the screen.

The staff watched her in silence.

"Huh…" she said. Top marks for creativity. "Well someone had better tell Henry." She flashed them a smile— _That should ease the tension_ —but then Blake opened his mouth, and her expression fell. She raised her eyebrows at him and held up one finger. "That was a joke, Blake, but thanks. Now we can all share in this delightfully awkward mortification."

Blake pursed his lips, his cheeks flushed crimson, and he retreated to the corner of the room.

"Do you want to put out a statement?" Daisy asked.

"What?" Matt snorted, and his lips twisted into a smirk. "Like cast her vote?"

Elizabeth turned to him with a hard stare. And Matt's smile floundered.

"No, you creep," Daisy said, her voice lowered to a hiss. "Like pointing out how crass and inappropriate this is."

"Because prodding the troll always turns out so well?" Matt drawled. He pivoted back and forth in his chair.

"So you think we should just stay silent?" Daisy said. "Let people think this is acceptable?"

"The alternative is that we engage and risk making things worse," Jay said.

"I say we just leave it," Elizabeth said. "People will get distracted by…I don't know…" She fumbled the air for an example. "—a Kardashian painting her nails, and before you know it, this whole thing will blow over."

Kat shook her head. "But you shouldn't have to deal with this, ma'am."

"None of us should, Kat," Elizabeth said through a taut smile. Then she gave a shrug. "But hey, c'est la vie."

* * *

 **Jason**

The tide of students swelled against Jason as he walked down the hallway towards his class. The surge of voices hushed when it reached him and people averted their gazes. And then came the snickering. "Hey, McCord! _I would, wouldn't you?_ "

Jason clenched his fists as he clung to the straps of his backpack.

" _Mmmh…those legs_." Another roar of laughter.

He drew his lips tight and bit down on the inside of his cheek.

A gang of boys from the year above barged into his path. They formed a broad arc, arms folded over their chests, sneers plastered across their faces. Jason ducked his head down and tried to step through, but one of them caught hold of his shoulder and shoved him back.

"McCord, your mom—" one of them—a heavy-built boy called Markus—began.

"Madam Sexytary." Trent cut in, and his lips twisted into a sickening smirk.

"That's right, Madam Sexytary." Markus rolled the name around in his mouth as if it were a delicacy to savour.

"Look, guys," Jason said, "I just want to get to class." _Before I break your nose and get excluded from this school too._ He tried to squeeze his way through, but they pushed him back again.

"What's wrong, McCord?" Markus said. "We're just talking."

"You're objectifying my mom."

Markus frowned. "What? I'm not objecting against your mom."

Jason shook his head. _Idiot_. "No, _objectifying_."

The bell rang out; its shrill peal echoed through the halls.

"Whatever," Jason said. "I'm late for class." He darted to the side and jumped into the stream of students that flooded past in the last surge to reach their classrooms. He kept his gaze ahead and let himself be swept along, but behind him came another series of shouts, the chant of " _I would, wouldn't you?_ "

* * *

 **Henry**

Four o'clock. So much for no caffeine after three. Henry set the coffee down on his desk in the study, only for the steaming liquid to slosh over the edge of the cup. "Damn it." He grabbed a wad of tissues from the box on Elizabeth's desk and mopped up the spill before it could seep into the pile of essays waiting to be read.

The front door slammed, and the windows juddered in their frames. Henry spun round. Stood in the entrance hall, Jason dropped his rucksack from his shoulders and let it slide down his arms to the ground. He leant against the door, and his head fell back against the glass. Henry stooped down and tossed the tissues into the bin under his desk.

"Hey, buddy." He stepped into the doorway. "You're home early."

Jason turned his head and looked at him. Eyes vacant, jaw clenched. "Yeah, well…" He shrugged and then pushed himself away from the door. His whole body slouched, as if succumbing to some great weight.

"Don't you have debate practice?"

"Not in the mood."

Henry motioned for him to step into the study and then gestured to the armchair in the corner. Whilst Jason slumped down into the seat, Henry grabbed his own chair from behind his desk and wheeled it over. He sat in front of Jason, and leaning forward, he touched Jason's knee. "Talk to me."

Jason's lips pulled to one side—a facial shrug. "Just stupid guys saying stupid guy stuff."

"About this thing with your mom?" _I would, wouldn't you?_

Jason nodded, his lips now pursed into a bud.

Henry let out a stream of breath. He tapped Jason's knee. "I know it's difficult with Mom being a public figure—"

"I don't mind her being a public figure," Jason said, "I just wish she wasn't subjected to public ridicule."

Henry's heart twinged. His lips pulled into a taut line. "I know. Believe me, I hate it as much as you do, if not more." Because whilst everyone else saw the composed facade, he had the privilege—and the pain—of seeing her at her most vulnerable.

Jason met his eye. "I know you guys shield us from a lot, and we probably don't have a clue about half the things you do, but I know that Mom works really hard to make things better in the world, and for the way she looks to eclipse all that, just because she's a woman…it sucks."

Henry gave a wry laugh. "Yeah, it does."

"I just wish I knew what to say to make people see that." Jason shook his head to himself and then leant back against the cushion and folded his arms across his chest. His eyes turned to the net curtains that glowed with an apricot haze as they caught the sunlight.

"It's frustrating, I know." Henry wheeled back across the floor and grabbed the cup from his desk before he returned to Jason. He took a long sip, the curves of the coffee undulating against his tongue. "It's tempting to speak out, to engage with these people and try to make them see reason, but the reality is that they won't listen, and if anything, we just make the situation worse."

Jason glanced back to him, brow pinched. "So we're just meant to stay silent?"

Henry took another sip and nodded.

Jason's frown deepened. "Back when there was that thing with Thad Newton, Alison said that by saying nothing we're just as bad as the people doing these things. She said that we're the reason they get away with it."

Henry's jaw clenched. The thought of anyone doing that to his daughter. "That's different." He huffed. "Trying to coerce a girl into a room isn't the same as making a crass comment on a television show and it getting swept up by Neanderthals on Twitter."

"But isn't it all related?" Jason shook his head, and he leant forward again, gesturing. "I mean, Russ Freyton is promoting an attitude towards women that fosters that kind of behaviour."

Henry paused; he let the point circle through his mind. "In a way, yes. But—"

"Then surely we should say something." Jason's voice rose, and a glimmer of something—frustration, passion—lit his eyes. "We should say that it's not okay to treat women—Mom—like this, to act as if her only value is in her looks."

Henry kept his gaze steady on Jason. "But as you already pointed out, what can you say? What words would possibly make them see that?"

"Then maybe we don't need to say something," Jason said. "What was Mom going on about before…?" He snapped his fingers, as if trying to summon the memory. His eyes sharpened. "Symbols being louder than words?"

Henry chuckled. "See, you do listen to her really." His smile waned, and he looked Jason firm in the eye. "Look, I know that today's been difficult, but by tomorrow this will all have blown over. I don't want you to go doing something _symbolic_ —no matter how well-meaning it is—and end up making things worse for your mother, okay?"

Jason frowned. He opened his mouth, though no words came.

"You want people to respect Mom, right?" Henry said, and Jason nodded. "Then we need to respect her too, and she's said not to comment on it, you understand?"

Jason nodded again, more reluctant this time.

Henry inched forward in the seat and laid his hand against Jason's shoulder. "There'll always be people who say things against her, but at the end of the day, it's what the people who love her say that counts." He shook Jason's shoulder. "Don't save up all this appreciation for when something like this happens; this is the stuff you need to make sure she knows."

Jason's lips pinched. "But she does know, right?"

"She's ex-CIA, not a mind-reader, Jase." That earnt him a small smile. "It wouldn't hurt to open up sometimes, to say the things that matter whilst you can." Henry's own smile dwindled. God knew Elizabeth understood that better than most. _The last thing I said to them was 'Close the door', not 'Goodbye', not 'I love you'; just 'Close the'—freaking—'door'._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 **Henry**

The glow of the bedside lamps lifted into the air and diffused through the room. Henry emptied his pockets onto the bedside table. Loose change, a few fluffs of lint, the card that reporter had given him. He crossed the room, one hand tugging at the knot of his tie, and sat down at the end of the chaise longue. Knot loosened, he slipped the tie free from his neck and hung it over the back of the cushion. He turned towards the door. His heart jumped, and he gave a double take. Elizabeth had appeared in the doorway. How did she always manage to creep up on him like that? It was like a fox slinking across a fresh carpet of snow.

"Hey, babe." He smiled up at her and offered her his hand.

Her own smile made those first frail rays of dawn look positively dazzling, but she placed her hand in his and let him pull her towards the couch. He scooted back on the seat, making space for her, and the cushion dipped as she settled between his thighs. He gathered her against his chest, arms wrapped around her, and she sank back, her body yielding to the embrace with a long sigh.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and then rested his chin there. "How was your day?"

Elizabeth let out a huff of breath. "Well…it started out with half the country tweeting about how they'd like to _do_ me—" Henry hugged his arms tighter around her. "—then it descended into what position I'd like best—" She turned her face towards him and shot him a look. "Blake was going to draw up a list for you."

Henry drew back enough that he could look at her properly. "Seriously?"

"Oh yeah." Elizabeth nodded.

Henry's brow furrowed. "Well, that's…thorough."

Elizabeth gave a wry laugh and then turned back to face the door. She nestled against him, letting her head fall back against his shoulder. "I'm not quite sure when the boundaries got eroded…" Her fingertips wandered up and down his thigh, the touch just a graze through the fabric of his trousers.

He cleared his throat. "Perhaps around the time you ran out of clothes at the office and he had root through your underwear drawer."

Elizabeth chuckled. "It was three days before he could look me in the eye." The lightness of her laugh faded into the night. "Anyway, the White House signed off on the trade agreement—"

"That's great, babe." He kissed the top of her head, her hair smooth beneath his lips.

"But—" Her voice dipped. "—Russell Jackson said that we have to hold off on announcing it until this _thing_ dies down." She shook her head. "Apparently the White House doesn't like it when the Secretary of State is sexualised on national television." Her hand left his thigh and came to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"It's not your fault."

"I know," she said.

But did she know?

She sighed—no sound, just her body sinking against him—and then she patted his thigh. "For the record, this is my favourite position, just sat here with you." She twisted round to look up at him. The blue of her eyes danced, like petals swaying in the breeze, and the sparks were there too, if a little dim.

Henry chuckled, and he kissed her forehead. "Mine too."

Elizabeth eased away from his chest and turned round, forcing his grip on her waist to loosen. She knelt one knee against the end of the cushion, and as she leant in, her necklace swung forwards, gold glinting in the lamplight. She held his gaze.

At the look in her eye, his pulse quickened.

With one hand rested against his shoulder, the other cupping his cheek, she closed the gap between them. Closer, closer, closer—until her lips brushed against his. Gentle at first, like sunlight unspooling, but as he gripped her hips, she smiled against him and then threaded one hand through his hair and deepened their kiss.

His head swam, awash with the haze of flushed lips, the graze of her nails against his scalp, the subtle fragrance of orange blossom and jasmine that drifted in and out. He shuffled back on the couch, pulling her with him, until she landed awkwardly on top of his chest and laughed. The sound reverberated through him, a lilt in his heart. With their eyes locked, she rested her forehead against his. And since when did flames burn blue?

He tucked her hair behind her ear. "You're beautiful, you know that?"

And in the flicker of a second, her smile vanished. _I would, wouldn't you?_

His own smile fell as she closed her eyes and let out a puff of breath. He caressed her cheek. "Babe, I didn't mean—"

She shook her head, and her hair swept forward again, the veil of a waterfall raining down over his face. "I know…" She pushed herself off his chest and retreated to the edge of the sofa.

He sat up behind her, and his fingers itched to reach out and touch her, but he held back.

A glance over her shoulder. "This week's just getting to me." And the corners of her lips tugged into a sorry smile.

Her pain echoed through him, and he would take it all away if only he could. No burden was too great to bear. "Tell me what I can do."

But as soon as the words fell from his mouth, her phone buzzed and bleeped. She stood up from the couch and fumbled for it in her pocket. She frowned down at the screen, then turned her back on him and accepted the call. "Daisy?" A pause. Then her whole body slumped. "Okay…" She massaged her temples. "…Thanks for letting me know."

Henry's body tensed. "What is it?"

Elizabeth snatched the remote control from the bench at the end of the bed and zapped the television on. She flicked through the channels and then stopped. Russ Freyton's show.

" _In honour of the Secretary's fiftieth birthday, we're treating you to a top ten of sexiest photos. Let's recap what delights we've seen so far._ "

With each word and each picture, the pinch in Elizabeth's brow tightened, and Henry's chest clenched in response. She wasn't even dressed sexy; it was just her. He stood up from the couch. "Babe, come on, turn it off." But she just stared at the screen, and when he tried to take the remote from her, she hugged it to her chest and shielded it from his grasp.

" _And at number one, we have the 'do me' skirt._ " An image flashed up of Elizabeth in a pale blue blouse—top buttons undone—and a tight-fitting grey skirt. The camera roamed over her with a lecherous eye. The first time he had seen her in that outfit, he had wasted no time in telling her just how hot she was—showing her too—but now her confidence, that presence that made her _her_ , had gone.

She switched off the screen and threw the remote control down on to the bench. Then she stormed over to the closet and hauled open the doors. The coat hangers scraped against the rail as she rifled through her clothes— _scrape, screech, scrape_ —until her hands landed on the grey skirt. She yanked it out. She held it up to the light. She stopped.

* * *

 **1983**

 **Elizabeth**

Friday evening. The last embers of sun flowed in through the window and spilled out onto the textbook that lay in front of Elizabeth on the bed. She jotted down a note in the column of her worksheet and then paused, bringing the biro to rest against her lips. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Elizabeth called out as she flicked back through the pages of her textbook.

The door creaked open. "Hey, sweetie," her mother said. She sat on the edge of Elizabeth's bed and rested her hand against the mulberry blanket that covered the duvet. "Math?" She nodded to the textbook. And when Elizabeth said nothing, she continued, "Are you still having trouble with Mr Fredericks?"

"Well, he still doesn't have a clue what he's talking about, so yeah," Elizabeth said. She dropped her pen onto the worksheet and then eased herself up off her stomach and sat back against the pillows with her knees hugged to her chest. "He thinks that just reading from the textbook and writing out the examples we've already got is teaching." She shook her head to herself, and her sandy hair tumbled forward over her shoulders. "It's like they're content just churning out people who can only give rote answers, rather than enabling anyone to approach a problem with an ounce of original thought. It's all: don't question, just do."

"That's what school's like sometimes, sweetheart." Her mother's lips tugged into a small smile, and she laid her hand against Elizabeth's foot. "But it'll get better when you go to college."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "If I ever get to college."

"What do you mean?" Her mother's smile dwindled.

"Everyone else applying will be far more prepared," Elizabeth said, "they won't be limited by teachers like Mr Fredericks." Her gaze dipped to the blanket at she toyed with the tassels at its edge and teased the strands apart. "I was thinking…maybe I could get a tutor…someone who actually knows what they're doing." She met her mother's eye.

Her mother's mouth hung open for a moment, before she gave a slight shake of her head. "But, sweetheart, your grades are great, and between your studies and clubs and the horses, where are you going to make time?"

"I'll find time," Elizabeth said. "Please. Just say you'll think about it."

Her mother let out a puff of breath, and her face softened. "Fine. I'll talk to your father, but no promises, okay?" She tapped a finger at Elizabeth, eyebrows arched.

A buzz rippled up from Elizabeth's stomach and filled her chest with a cosy glow. She smiled. "Thanks, Mom."

"Now," her mother said, and she smoothed her hand over the blanket, "Aunt Joan's back from her business trip, and I wanted to ask you if you'd come see her with me tomorrow."

The buzz dissipated, along with Elizabeth's smile. She groaned. "Seriously? I thought we were going fishing."

"Your father and Will are going fishing—" Her mother began.

"Then why can't I go too?"

"They could use a little boy-time."

Of course— _boy-time_. Elizabeth's heart sank, and her expression must have too, for her mother squeezed her knee and gave her a coaxing smile.

"Going to see Aunt Joan won't be that bad."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows as high as they would go. "Do you _remember_ last time?"

"I admit, there were more mimosas than pastries at that brunch," her mother said, and her smile floundered, but she fixed it fast. "Come on, it'll be fun, I promise. When's the last time we got to spend the day together?" And her eyes glowed with such optimism that Elizabeth could hardly say no.

She let out a huff of breath, shook her head to herself and then muttered, "Fine."

They made an early start the following day. The sun hung high above them when the wheels of the car scrunched along the gravel driveway and then pulled to a halt with a screech. Elizabeth unbuckled her seatbelt and eased herself out of the car. Her legs ached, and she squinted in the harsh sunlight. She tugged down the hem of her dress and then parted her hair so that it cascaded over her shoulders. She took a deep breath. _Prepare yourself, Lizzie_.

The front door of the house opened, and Aunt Joan stepped out onto the porch. Her blonde hair was puffed up into wild curls like a lion's mane around her face, and a snakeskin belt cinched in her high-waisted jeans. "Took your time," she called out to them. "Thought you weren't coming."

Elizabeth's feet clung to the path. _God, why did she agree to this?_ But her mother nudged her forwards, and the gravel slipped and rasped beneath the soles of her pumps as she made her way to the porch.

Aunt Joan and her mother bumped cheeks in an air-kiss on each side. "Where's the boy?"

"Fishing," her mother said.

"You should've brought him." Aunt Joan motioned for them to follow her inside. "I could've used a laugh." When the door clunked shut, she turned to Elizabeth and offered her a sharp smile, crimson lipstick like blood wetting the curve of a knife.

Elizabeth's stomach tightened in response. _What've you gotten yourself into, Lizzie?_

Aunt Joan grabbed hold of Elizabeth's chin and turned her face from side to side. "God, look at those cheekbones. Got yourself a boyfriend yet?"

A rush of heat surged to Elizabeth's face.

Aunt Joan's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "Don't worry, you'll have them queuing up soon enough, once they get their tongues out of a twist." She pointed a manicured nail at Elizabeth—the same shade as her lipstick. "You're going to break hearts, young lady." Then she curled her finger towards her palm and led them through to the sitting room.

"I don't think Elizabeth has time for dating," her mother said, and she squeezed Elizabeth's shoulder as they followed. "It's not exactly a priority right now."

Aunt Joan spun back to face Elizabeth. "Why not?" She looked Elizabeth up and down. "With a figure like that, you could get any boy you want." She placed her hands on her own waist, emphasising how narrow it was. "That's one of the many reasons I didn't have kids. God gives you one body, don't waste it."

Elizabeth sank down onto the couch and the brown leather creaked beneath her. "I have a lot going on with school—"

Aunt Joan arched an eyebrow at her. "You still into books?" She leant over the coffee table and poured out three cups; the aroma blossomed and percolated through the room. As she did so, her gaze kept darting back to Elizabeth. Expectant.

Elizabeth hesitated, mouth open, and then she pursed her lips and nodded. "I like studying." _Nothing wrong with that, right?_

"Look, Lizzie," Aunt Joan said, "I'll tell you something that your mother never will." She shot Elizabeth's mother a glance as she passed her a cup of coffee—white, two sugars. Then she settled down into the armchair opposite, one leg slung over the other, fingernails tapping against the armrest. "Boys don't like girls who are too smart. I mean, it's okay to be smarter than them, but you can't let them know it." She leant forward, eyes narrowed on Elizabeth. "Books are one thing, but looks…looks will get you everywhere."

"But I don't want to just be pretty," Elizabeth said, her cheeks scalding. "I want to do something that matters."

"Like what?"

"I…" Elizabeth began. Her gaze dipped to the varnished wood of the coffee table as she shook her head, the ends of her hair swaying across her chest. "I don't know yet." She met her aunt's gaze. Piercing. "I just want to make a difference in the world."

Aunt Joan chuckled. She sipped on her coffee and stared at Elizabeth over the edge of the cup. Then— _clink—_ she lowered the cup to the saucer in her lap and rested back against the cushions of the cream-coloured armchair. "You're still young, but one day you'll get it."

Elizabeth scowled. "Get what?"

"The world is run for men, by men, to serve men and men alone. If you want to make a difference, you need to know the rules of the game, and I'm afraid that books and brains won't cut it. Your value is in this—" She gestured to Elizabeth's body, blonde hair to burgundy pumps. "—so you'd better get rid of any fairytale notions, and learn how to use it."

Elizabeth shrank back into the leather couch. Her whole body burned. How could Aunt Joan say such a thing? But then again, was it any different to what her parents had said? It was like they were all stuck in the past, blind to the changes around them. Why couldn't they see that being a girl was no longer a barrier? That that was just a relic that lived on in their minds.

Her mother's hand against her knee jolted her from her thoughts. She squeezed and offered Elizabeth a small smile, before turning back to Aunt Joan.

"So," her mother said, "how was your trip to New York?"

* * *

 **Present Day**

 **Henry**

Elizabeth stared at the 'do me' skirt for the longest time, until she no longer seemed to be looking at it so much as looking through it. Then she jolted—a hypnagogic jerk—and she strode to the bedroom door and tossed the skirt out into the hall.

Henry sank down onto the end of the bed as Elizabeth returned to the closet. She rifled through the clothes again; the screech of metal on metal, glimpses of fabric, gusts of colour. Henry rubbed his brow. "Elizabeth, stop."

She glanced at him, no more than half a second, and then returned to her sifting.

"You can't throw out all of your clothes because of what one guy says. If you let him determine your behaviour, you're just letting him win."

Elizabeth stalled. Her hands found her hips, and her head fell back, eyes closed. She took a deep breath and then turned to him. "What if I'm playing a game that I can't win?" Her voice wisped, drained of emotion. "What if I'm kidding myself in ever thinking I could make a difference? What if the only reason that I'm here, in this position now, is because of the way I look?"

"You are making a difference," Henry said. He rose up from the bed and padded across the floor to stand behind her. He gripped her shoulders and tried to massage away the tension, but the knots were bound too tight. "You wouldn't be here, achieving all the things that you do, if it weren't for your ideas, your intelligence, your passion."

Elizabeth glanced back, her lips drawn into a taut line. "But it doesn't hurt if it comes in a pretty package, right?"

Henry's hands stilled. He rested his forehead against the back of her head and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of her coconut shampoo. What could he say to make her see? How could he get through to her? He skimmed his hands all the way down her arms and laced their fingers together, relishing the warmth of her palms against his own. "People have made comments before, and I know that they've upset you—they upset me too—but what is it about this one? Why's this bothering one you so much?"

Elizabeth shrugged. Her voice was hollow when she spoke. "I don't know."

Twenty years in the CIA and not once had she blown her cover—as far as he knew—so how was it that she couldn't get away with a simple lie? Henry squeezed her hands. "Whatever it is, just tell me." When she remained silent, he said, "Is it about your birthday?"

Her throat clunked as she swallowed. "No."

"Your parents?"

Her whole body tensed against him.

His heart ached. _Oh_. "Tell me."

"I can't."

"Elizabeth." He tugged at her fingers, as if trying to tease the words loose.

"Henry." Her voice cracked. "I can't."

Henry's jaw clenched. "Can't, or don't want to?"

Elizabeth shook her hands free from his. She spun round. Damp eyes glistened in the dim light. Her mouth faltered—open, closed, open, closed. When she spoke, her voice was thick, strangled. "I spent those last weeks mad at them, mad at all the things they said, and now I keep remembering those conversations, and it feels like maybe they were right, maybe it's all coming true."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

 **Henry**

Henry climbed up onto the window ledge in their bedroom and then offered Elizabeth his hand. She climbed up too and settled between his legs, her back to his chest. Each breath that she took rose and fell through him, her soft warmth an antidote to the chill that seeped in through the window. A lone car sailed by outside, the roar of its engine like a tide that surged and ebbed into the night.

She rested her head back, her hair silken against his cheek, and he wrapped his arms around her, surrounding her, their own little refuge. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear. "I'm here. I've got you."

She swallowed, then nodded, then began. "It was a week before my birthday…"

* * *

 **1983**

 **Elizabeth**

Elizabeth was sat at the small wooden desk in the corner of her bedroom. The golden glow of the late afternoon sun filtered in through the window behind her and filled the room with a lazy warmth. It mingled with the smell of baked potatoes that wafted up the stairs, and as she imagined their skins blistering in the oven, her stomach grumbled.

The pen slipped across the page of her notepad. "Shoot." She grabbed the bottle of white-out and applied a thin sheen to the paper. Then she blew on it—the surface ruffling—until it dried.

"You know, if you make a mistake, you can just cross it out." Will's voice came from the doorway—from the door that should be closed.

Elizabeth jerked her head up and scowled at him. "Get out of my room, Will."

Will flashed that smug smile of his; his sandy blonde fringe flipping forward into his eyes. "I'm not even in your room." And he motioned to his feet, his toes just a hair's breadth beyond the line between the bedroom and the hall.

Elizabeth's pulse throbbed through her temple. She took a deep breath. Then—"Mom!" She shouted. "Will's annoying me."

And Will's expression fell, his lips disappearing into a pout.

"Will—" Their mother's voice echoed through the house. "—leave your sister alone."

"But I didn't do anything!" Will shouted, and a flush of red rose through his cheeks. He lowered his voice and hissed at Elizabeth. "God, Lizzie, you're such a nerd."

Elizabeth smirked as she looked him up and down. "Better than being a loser."

Will's face pinched. "You're the loser."

"Hey. That's enough." Their father appeared in the hallway and placed a hand on Will's shoulder. "Don't call your sister a loser."

"But she—" Will's voice shot up.

"Dinner's almost ready," their father said, and he steered Will away from the door. "Go set the table. Your mother and I need to have a word." He turned back to Elizabeth and flashed her a smile. "Five minutes, sweetheart." Then he undid the clasp of his watch and handed it to her.

A hug-like warmth spread through her chest; he knew how much she loved that watch. Until—

"Don't work too hard."

She caught her smile before it faltered. He would never say that to Will.

Ten minutes later, Elizabeth bundled down the stairs and the fourth step creaked as she hit it. She hurried along the hallway to the dining room, the smell of jacket potatoes calling to her. When she pushed open the door and stepped inside, she was met with the whine of Will's voice. "But it's not fair."

Will was sat at the head of the table, their parents across from each other on either side. With his elbows rested against the wood, his head clutched in his hands, he looked as though he had just been grounded for a month, which given his latest school report would be totally justified.

"That's life, Will," their father said. "This is for your own good."

"So you've finally decided to send him to military school?" Elizabeth asked, and Will made a face at her as she took her seat at the opposite end of the table. She grabbed the salad bowl and began to load up her plate using the tongs.

"Actually," her mother said, and the hesitance in her tone made Elizabeth stop, "we've decided to hire a tutor for your brother."

Elizabeth's stomach lurched. She dropped the tongs back into the bowl. "What?" Her voice cut through the room. "How come when I asked for a tutor you said no, but he—" She glared at Will. "—gets one now? It's like you're rewarding him for being lazy."

"Your brother needs to improve his grades," her father said. "You on the other hand—"

"Should just settle for mediocrity?" Elizabeth's cheeks burned. She stood up so sharply that her chair screeched across the floor. "I mean, why waste money on my education when I'm just a girl?" She turned to the door, fists clenched at her side. "This is so unfair."

"That's life, Lizzie," Will said, and the mocking smile dripped through his voice.

Elizabeth bit down on the inside of her cheek, her blood boiling. She took a deep breath that bound her chest. Then she stormed out. Her mother called after her, but she didn't stop. She stalked along the corridor, pace slowing only to haul the front door open. She slammed it shut behind her and then jumped down from the porch and set off in a jog towards the stables.

"Elizabeth," her mother shouted into the fading light, "come back."

Elizabeth ducked into the shadows of the stables. The smell of horsehair and leather, hoof paint and saddle soap tinged the cool air, and the horses snorted and whinnied as she trod across the sawdust and bark that littered the floor. She made her way to the far end and then lifted the catch on the righthand stall. She crept inside. Dandelion turned her head towards Elizabeth, revealing the flash of her blaze. She snorted, and her chestnut coat shivered.

"Hey, girl," Elizabeth whispered as she stroked Dandelion's nose. And Dandelion nuzzled against her. At least she had no cares for whether Elizabeth was a boy or girl; she placed value only in a person's kindness. Elizabeth patted her shoulder and then reached up and threaded her fingers through the chestnut mane. "You're my favourite, you know that?" Then she chuckled as Dandelion nodded in reply.

"Elizabeth." Her mother's voice came from the entrance to the stall, and Elizabeth's smile faded. "Please can we just talk about this?"

Elizabeth's grip on Dandelion's mane tightened, and she glared at her mother through the diffuse light. "What's there to talk about?" She let out a sharp breath. "God, you're just as bad as Aunt Joan."

Her mother's nostrils flared, but she let the comment slide. "Your father and I just want what's best for you. There's no denying that you're gifted, Elizabeth, but you've got to realise—"

Elizabeth arched her eyebrows at her. "That I'm a girl?"

"Yes." Her mother tossed her hands up. Then she pinched her temples, and her gaze fell to the ground as she shook her head. "Your aunt's right about some things—the rules for men and women are different in this world. No matter what you do, you'll have to work twice as hard for only half the credit. And even then not everyone will take you seriously."

Elizabeth folded her arms over her chest. "So I should just settle for second best to save myself from disappointment?"

"It's okay to have dreams, but you need to be realistic too." Her mother took a step into the stall, and Dandelion dragged her front hoof over the ground, scraping it through the straw.

Elizabeth stroked the mare's muzzle and hushed her. "William Howard Taft said: _We must dare to be great; and we must realise that greatness is the fruit of toil and sacrifice and high courage._ " She stared hard at her mother. "If I don't dare, how will I ever know what I can achieve?" Her mother opened her mouth, but in the hesitation, Elizabeth continued, "If we only think about the world the way it is, instead of what it could be, how will it ever change?"

The following silence bristled with the hot snorts of the horses around them and the rattle as shoulders and haunches bumped up against the stalls. Elizabeth's mother let out a long sigh. "We're just trying to protect you, Elizabeth. One day, when you have children of your own, you'll understand."

* * *

 **Present Day**

 **Henry**

"And I do understand." Elizabeth traced circles on Henry's knee, her other hand rested against his fingers where they interlocked over her stomach. "Ever since the kids were born, a day hasn't passed that I don't worry about them. I'd do anything to protect them. And I do fear that they'll be disappointed in life; and I want to protect them from that too.

"It's like when Ali applied to Rafferty. Of course I wanted her to get in, but did a part of me think maybe the competition was too tough and maybe—through no fault of her own—she'd be rejected? Of course. And that made me want to tell her to stick to a safer choice. Just like Stevie and Harvard. Seeing how disappointed she was made me wish I'd told her not to apply too."

Her hand stilled against his knee, and she shook her head to herself, her hair gliding over his cheek. "I don't know what experiences my parents had, what their upbringings were like, to make them feel that way. All I could see were the changes happening around me, and it never crossed my mind that being a girl would stop me, and it made me so mad to hear them talk like that. It felt like they were punishing me, not trying to protect me…I barely spoke to them for the following week, and then it was my birthday…"

* * *

 **1983**

 **Elizabeth**

"Why can't we just buy cakes like normal people?" Elizabeth said, and she shook out her aching hand. Her palm was red and raw from stirring the wooden spoon through the stiff batter, and it felt as though she'd never be able to grip a pen again, let alone write an essay.

"Because this is our tradition," her mother said from her seat at the kitchen table, and she smiled up at Elizabeth from behind her coffee cup.

"You know, just because something's traditional," Will said, "doesn't mean you should keep doing it." He leant back against the kitchen side next to Elizabeth, a bowl of chocolate frosting hugged to his chest. He dipped one finger in and scooped a dollop into his mouth, and then he pulled his finger out with a pop.

"Hey," their mother said, and she raised her eyebrows at Will, "at least wait until after breakfast before you get started on the sugar."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "We wouldn't have this problem if we just got a cake from the store." She nodded towards the metal tins, thick with grease, that rested on the countertop behind Will. "Pass me those."

"Get them yourself," Will said, and he dumped the frosting bowl down.

Elizabeth groaned. "God, Will, you're so—"

But before she could say anything else, Will snatched a handful of flour from the open bag and flung it at her. It exploded into the air, a burst of powdery white. She squealed and beat the cloud back from her face and then spluttered as she drew in a lungful. She coughed into the crook of her arm, and daring to open her eyes, her glower fell upon her brother. "Will! You're so dead."

"Hey, hey, hey." Their mother stepped between them as Elizabeth lunged at Will and he jumped back, a wicked grin plastered across his face.

"That doesn't sound like baking." Their father's voice interrupted from the doorway. His gaze found Elizabeth, his eyes alight with a glimmer of amusement. "Lizzie, you've got a little something—" He motioned to her whole face. Will laughed, and even her mother bit back a smile.

Elizabeth's cheeks burned. "This is why I hate birthdays," she said, and then she marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs, wiping the flour from her face with the back of her pyjama sleeve.

Once in the safety of the bathroom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like one of those old ladies who applied too much powder, until they took on an almost spectral appearance. Not a good look. Using one of the towels from the rack, she dabbed the flour away, focusing on the hairline where it clung to her roots. No doubt she'd have to wash her hair again, but at least she had gotten the worst of it out.

"It could be worse," her father said as she stepped out of the bathroom. She jumped, and her heart pounded at a heavy-hoofed canter. "You could be turning fifty."

"It's not my fault that you're getting old." Elizabeth pushed past him and headed for her bedroom. She flung the door shut behind her, but her father caught hold of it and followed her inside.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said, and he lowered himself onto the edge of her bed.

Elizabeth retreated to the window ledge at the far side of the room, forcing her father to twist round so that he could keep his gaze on her. She leant back against the wall, and curling her fingers over the cill, she pursed her lips and cocked her head to one side. _Talk about what?_

"I wanted to apologise," he said, and his gaze dipped away for a moment before it met hers again. "You're a remarkable girl—" He shook his head. "—a remarkable _person_ , Elizabeth, and I'm sorry if I've been anything but supportive of you. At the end of the day, I'm your father and I worry about you. I see all the potential you have, all your dreams, and I fear for you—I fear that they'll be crushed."

"I'm not naive." Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. "I don't need wrapping in cotton wool."

Her father paused. He nodded to himself as if pondering that point. Then he continued. "The problem with youth is that everything in this world is far more complicated than you think it is right now." He let out a long breath. "But I guess that's something that you need to learn for yourself, and who am I to deny you that?"

Elizabeth frowned, her pulse a jitter. What, exactly, was he saying?

"If you want to reach for the stars, reach for them. If you want to compete with men, do it." He threw his hands up. "Hell, if you want to be the first female president, go for it." His face softened. "What I want you to know is that I'll be here to support you, always, and I'll be here when things get tough—because they will. And I'll be here, waiting for the day when you achieve all these things that I never thought possible, and when you come back to tell me that you've proved me wrong."

Elizabeth tried to resist the smile that tugged at her lips, tried to remain mad at him, but the warmth that flooded through her in that moment was too much, like trying to hold back a river with her bare hands. She pushed herself away from the window cill and flung her arms around her father. She hugged him tight, grasping the back of his shirt, and breathed in that scent of safety and home.

"I love you, Lizzie, more than you can know." He clutched her, his fingers twisting through her long hair. "Now, about your birthday present—"

Elizabeth drew back. Knelt on her bed, she looked down at him.

"I haven't bought you anything this year—"

Elizabeth's heart sank.

"—but…I have arranged for you to have sessions with a tutor."

The tide of warmth rushed back. "Seriously?"

Her father nodded. "You start next week."

* * *

 **Present Day**

 **Henry**

"They died three days later."

And though Henry knew what was coming, his heart wrenched. "Elizabeth, I'm so sorry."

She leant forward and clutched her knees to her chest whilst silent sobs wracked her body. With his arms wrapped around her, he pressed his forehead to her back so that every shudder, every hitch of breath, every throb of her heart—her precious heart—coursed through him. He would absorb them all, he would carry the grief for her, he would free her from that pain. If only there were a way.

Elizabeth's hand found his own. She squeezed tight, tighter than tight, tighter even than she had when Stevie was born. She could crush every last bone, and still he wouldn't utter a sound, for her touch held the words she couldn't speak. Words of horror, guilt and despair.

Henry kissed her through her dress, a delicate trail that curved up her spine. A shiver broke through her sobs. She twisted round, and throwing her arms around him, she buried her face in his neck. Hot tears rolled down beneath his collar and soaked through his shirt, and her breaths quivered against his skin. He rubbed her back, whilst the fingers of his other hand tangled through her hair. She felt so small and fragile, a feather tumbling on the wind.

She drew back enough to rest her forehead against his, their noses touching, tears still spilling down. "He never turned fifty. He never saw me go to college, or marry a man who would cherish me, or find a career where I felt equal and empowered." She clung to the back of his neck, her fingernails digging in with a dull sting. "He never got to see me prove him wrong." She let out a long breath, and as she shook her head, her nose bumped against his. "And now with all these comments and stupid photos, it feels like maybe I'll never get that respect, never achieve what a man in my position would, and maybe I was the one who was wrong all along."

"You weren't wrong," Henry said, his voice claggy from his own tears. "You're a woman, Elizabeth, but not _just_ a woman, an incredible woman who improves the lives of millions of people across the world. I'm sorry that some people will never see past your appearance; that they're too ignorant or afraid or whatever it is that compels them to act this way." He rubbed her back, fingers trailing up, down, up, down. "But that shouldn't detract from your value, your own self-worth, because it certainly doesn't detract from all the amazing things you've achieved. The people who know you, who love you—" He touched his lips to hers. "—the people whose lives you've affected…they know what you're worth and they respect you."

His hand stilled against her lower back, and he pulled away enough to look into her eyes. Glossy with tears, they flickered, barely able to hold his gaze.

"I never got to meet your parents—that's something I'll always regret—"

Her gaze lowered, and he caught hold of her chin and dipped his head down until she met his eye.

"—so I can't speak for them, but I can speak as the father of two intelligent, strong-minded, beautiful girls growing up in our society today." He brushed away the tear that trickled down her cheek. "I empathise with your parents' fears—just as you do—but having those fears doesn't make me any less proud of our daughters, if anything it makes me respect them even more, and I think your father would feel the same way."

When her gaze fell this time, there was nothing he could do to draw it back to him.

"I know you want him to see who you've become, and I know there's nothing I can say to take that pain away. All I can do is to support you, to hold your hand when things get tough, and to tell you that I'll always be here beside you, in awe of you, as you push the boundaries of what so many people never thought possible."

He tangled his fingers through her hair and pulled her close so that he could press a kiss to her forehead, and then he held her there.

"You asked if this is a game that you can't win. But you can. Just be you, do what you've always done, and keep making up your own rules."

A chill whistled through the window and prickled over his skin. The air between them thickened, a palpable presence, and it was in moments like these that he glimpsed the scope of God. The infinite threads that bound their lives, the paths they wove, how a single cut would scatter them to the wind. Elizabeth shivered. And though she did not believe, perhaps she felt it too.

She gave him a watery smile. "They would have loved you."

It was a risk, but he had to take it. "Well, I am easy on the eye."

She laughed. And how empty others' lives must have been not to have heard that beautiful sound. She clutched his head to her chest and pressed a kiss to the top. Then cupping his jaw, she brought him to meet her eyes—still puffy and glistening, but bluer than before. Crystal skies.

"Let me hold you?" he said.

She nodded. She steadied herself against him and climbed down from the window ledge and then watched as he followed. With her back turned to him, she rested her chin against her shoulder and sent him a look. That look. Akin to the one he had seen so many times before, though different somehow. Vulnerable. Pure. So much more intimate.

His fingers trembled as he slid down the zipper on her dress. Down, down, down. Then a shrug, and the material pooled on the floor. Her shirt was next, discarded on the end of the chaise longue. She stepped towards him, and he caught the tremor in her hands too as her fingers slipped from button to button. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, and once freed from him, she clothed herself in it, claiming it as her own. Sometimes, after he had returned from trips, his shirts would carry her scent, and though she had never said—and he had never asked—he felt sure that this was what she did when he wasn't there to wrap her in his arms.

He laid his trousers down next to her blouse on the end of the sofa and then held out his hand for her own. She placed her fingers in his palm, and with her other hand clutching the front the shirt that dwarfed her frame, she let him lead her to their bed.

They lay facing one other, fingers intertwined. He held her gaze as he leant in, and then paused when his nose bumped against her own. His voice was thick when he spoke. "I love you."

She nuzzled against him. "I love you too."

And his eyes slipped shut as she closed the gap between them. The kiss was gentle, like the ruffle of the breeze. And it ached through him, pulling at the depths of his soul, because if it weren't for all her pain—the loss, the suffering, the grief—he might never have held this woman in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

 **Day Three**

 **Elizabeth**

Elizabeth snuggled further into the mattress. Henry was nestled behind her, knee hooked over her hip, arm slung across her waist, their fingers knotted together and clutched against her stomach. He enveloped her; his weight, his warmth, his scent—sandalwood and cinnamon. And the beat of his heart echoed through her, the rhythm a lulling hum.

Her eyelids fluttered open. Greeted by the white light that scattered through the net curtains, she winced and her head throbbed. She groaned and buried her face in the pillow. Who knew you could get a hangover from crying?

Henry shifted behind her, and his grip across her waist tightened. He nuzzled against her neck, his voice groggy and muffled by her skin as he spoke. "How're you feeling?"

The top ten photos, the poll, ' _I would, wouldn't you?_ '; they all flashed through her mind, far harsher than the sunlight. "Like today's gonna suck."

Henry rubbed his thumb over her fingers.

She lifted her head from the pillow and turned to catch his eye. "It's gonna suck, right?"

"Probably." His lips tugged into a sorry smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkled—so concerned, so kind. "And tomorrow might too."

She let out a sharp sigh and fell back against the pillow.

Henry squeezed her hand. "Hey, how about I take you out for lunch? Take your mind off things?"

"I can't." Elizabeth propped herself up, and Henry sat up too. She eased back against the headboard and raked one hand through her hair. "I have that presentation today, honouring the girls who wrote those essays about the importance of empowering women…" Her stomach sank, and she shot Henry a grim smile. "…seems a bit ironic."

Henry laid his hand against her thigh. "Things will get better, babe."

She nodded, and her gaze lowered to her lap. "I know." And they always did, though sometimes they had to get worse first. She met Henry's eye. "Can you tell I've been crying?"

Henry's expression faltered.

She winced. "That bad, huh?"

His lips tugged to one side. "A little puffy."

She toyed with the buttons of the shirt she had acquired. "I guess that's what you get when you save it all up…" And her heart ached so much that it felt empty. Henry rubbed her thigh, but before he could say anything, before they could broach _that_ again, she shook her head to herself, and forcing a smile, she looked him in the eye. "I'm fine."

He nodded. His hand stilled. "But if you're ever not…"

"I know." She cupped his cheek and leant in to kiss his lips, gentle but lingering, like a pool of sunshine surrounded by shadow as clouds sailed by. "Thank you." Then she crawled past him and clambered out his side of the bed.

The air was brisk after the embrace of his body and the covers, and she hugged his shirt around her, though the cotton did little to fend off the chill that shivered through her skin. On the bedside table, there was a business card emblazoned with a news network logo—one with a more tabloid slant. Henry's gaze must have followed her own, because before she could ask, he said, "They wanted me to make a comment, but I said no."

Elizabeth nodded. Good. Though at what point did silence become condonation?

* * *

"Good morning." Elizabeth headed straight for the coffee on the desk just inside the conference room. She handed Blake her coat and offered him a small smile as he met her with an anxious pout, and then she poured herself a cup. She snatched up one of the blueberry muffins from the tray in the middle of the table and then slumped down into her seat. She eyed her staff. "I'm aware of the photos on the show last night. It's unfortunate that this has become an issue, but I'd like us to press on as normal."

Daisy's eyes widened, her lips parted.

Elizabeth looked to her. "Daisy?"

"With the hashtag still trending, I'm being flooded with requests for a comment," Daisy said, "and after last night, it's bound to come up in the press briefing." Her tone was strained; perhaps it was getting to everyone.

"I don't want to draw any more attention to this," Elizabeth said, "let alone give it any kind of legitimacy. Let's just focus on our work." She glanced to Jay. "Is everything set for the presentation at lunchtime?"

Jay quickly chewed and swallowed his bite of muffin, and dusted down his hands. He nodded, and was about to speak when Blake jumped up from his chair in the corner, one finger poised in the air. "Um…ma'am—"

Russell Jackson stormed into the room. His frown was so deep that it cast the rest of expression into darkness, and his temple pulsated. "Why is it that when I turned on the news this morning, all I could see was pictures of your legs?"

The room plunged into silence. The trills of phones and the chatter of their colleagues drifted through from the outer office. Elizabeth's staff turned to look at Russell, before their gazes darted back to her—back, forth, back, forth.

Elizabeth's jaw clenched. She flattened her palms against the desk, pushed herself up to standing and met his glare with equal ferocity.

Russell's expression eased a little, and he lowered his voice to a hiss. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you, Bess, but what people think about you affects how they think about the White House, about the president." He pointed one finger at her. "You need to get a handle on this. Now."

Kat's lips twisted. "You're kidding, right? You can't actually think that any of this is her fault." She snorted. "Or perhaps you think all women should cover their ankles lest they tempt the virtuous minds of men." She shook her head to herself and murmured, "What harpies we all are."

Russell glowered at Kat. "What the—?" He looked back to Elizabeth, brow furrowed. He pointed to Kat. "I have no idea what's she's talking about. Just sort it out, Bess. Today." He turned to leave.

But Elizabeth called after him. "This isn't China, Russell—"

He stalled.

"—I don't have control over the media, social or otherwise." She folded her arms across her chest. "And I certainly don't get a kick out of my legs dominating the news cycle any more than you do."

Russell stepped back into the room. "I don't need a lecture on the pitfalls of free speech." His eyes bugged. "What I need is for you to change the narrative."

"How?"

"I don't know." He gestured as if conjuring the solution from the air. "Work your magic. Just get it away from ' _I would, wouldn't you?_ '."

* * *

 **Jason**

The pictures were everywhere. Stuck to lockers, plastered to the walls, pinned to the noticeboards. And all of them bore the hashtag ' _I would, wouldn't you?_ '. Jason kept his gaze low, his mouth pinched into a pout as he walked down the hall towards his classroom. With every step, every hush, every snicker, anger fizzled through him like acid in his veins. He clenched his fists around the straps of his backpack, and his fingernails dug into his palms. Why did people have to act like such jerks? Why did they have to do this to his mom? The acid roiled and he could just—

 _You want people to respect Mom, right? Then we need to respect her too._

His father's words came to him. He took a deep breath and held it until it felt as though his chest might burst. Then he let it flow out, and the heat that coursed through him cooled. Maybe he would never make these people see what they had done wrong, but at least he wouldn't make it worse. Even if that meant biting his tongue so hard that it bled.

* * *

Mrs Henshaw turned away from the class and wrote up the second example on the board.

"Hey. McCord."

Something hit the back of Jason's head. He spun round. From the back row, Stephen and his duo of braindead sidekicks smirked at him and gestured to the wad of paper on the floor.

Jason stooped down and picked it up. He flattened it out against his desk. His mom. The 'do me' skirt. And some rather crude diagrams. Heat flared through his cheeks, and his whole body burned; every vessel, every nerve raged with fire.

Peals of laughter echoed from the back of the class. Jason shot to his feet, so fast that the chair clattered to the floor. He scrunched the paper into his fist, snatched up his backpack and then barged through the rows of desks and fled from the room.

"Jason—" Mrs Henshaw called after him.

But he stalked off down the corridor. He unzipped his bag and tore down picture after picture after picture and stuffed them inside. Perhaps it was futile. Perhaps they'd just print more and the walls would be covered again by lunchtime. But for a moment the lockers were bare and his mind caught glimpses of peace; if only it were so easy to rip down the images online.

* * *

 **Elizabeth**

Knock, knock.

Elizabeth glanced up from the couch in her office. "Come in." She clunked her mug down on the coffee table as Daisy stepped inside.

"We're almost ready for you, ma'am." Daisy stopped by the armchairs that faced the table, her hands clutched in front of her. "I just wanted to check that you're sure about this…what with _you know_ …we could get someone else to give the presentation instead."

"You heard Russell Jackson: we need to change the narrative." Elizabeth shook her head. "Besides, I'm not changing my schedule because of what people on Twitter have said."

Daisy's lips pulled into a taut line, and she nodded. Acceptance if not agreement.

Elizabeth shrugged, her voice lifted. "Besides, how bad can it be?" She forced a smile, though everything inside felt like it was sinking, determined to drag it down.

The presentation room buzzed, the air alive with the fast-paced chatter of the competition winners and their parents. Journalists crowed the far end of the room, and a couple of photographers drifted through, the snap and flash of their cameras adding to the atmosphere. A clamour swept through as Elizabeth stepped up to the podium, and then the room settled into a hush. Elizabeth glanced down at her notes for the speech, looked up at the audience and opened her mouth to begin.

Then it happened. A wolf whistle cut through the air. Sharp and clear.

Elizabeth's tongue stumbled, and she fought back the blush that threatened to rise through her cheeks. She took a deep breath. Her mind swam, full of incoherent snatches of thought. Crass, inappropriate, disrespectful. Then it spiralled. A rush of images, a memory montage, stained with voices from the past.

 _She's a girl. She'll never be given the same respect that a man in her position would._

 _Books are one thing, but looks…looks will get you everywhere._

 _The rules for men and women are different in this world. No matter what you do, you'll have to work twice as hard for only half the credit. And even then not everyone will take you seriously._

 _We're just trying to protect you, Elizabeth._

 _I'll be here, waiting for the day when you achieve all these things that I never thought possible, and when you come back to tell me that you've proved me wrong._

Her stomach clenched, and bile surged through her throat. Bitter. Acid. Burning.

"Ma'am?" Daisy had stepped up to the podium. Her wide eyes and tense lips brought a whole new meaning to her 'anxious face'.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, and slowly, like a spinning top losing momentum, the images whirled to a stop. But there was one more voice, one last echo. _You asked if this is a game that you can't win. But you can. Just be you, do what you've always done, and keep making up your own rules._ She let out a sharp breath and then opened her eyes. _God bless that man_. She plastered on a smile, nodded to Daisy and whispered, "I'm fine."

* * *

 **Jason**

The television blared in the den and filled the house with its jarring hum. Jason strode through the kitchen, past the sofa where Alison and Stevie were curled up on either end, and straight out the back door. He shrugged his bag from his back and then flipped open the lid of the bin. He grabbed fistfuls of the photos and dumped them inside, watching as they fluttered down and mingled with the trash.

"What are you doing?" Alison's voice came from behind him, and a second later she stooped down and snatched a handful of photos from his bag. "Oh. My. God."

Jason stopped and turned around just as Stevie stepped outside too.

Stevie peered over Alison's shoulder and frowned down at the photos.

Jason's mouth turned dry. "Some guys at school—"

Alison held up the images. "Please tell me you said something."

"I—" Jason began.

His sisters' faces flashed with anger.

His pulse surged, a thud in his ears, and his voice squeaked as he said, "Dad told me not to."

"Jay-son." Stevie broke down his name. "You can't let people do this."

Jason threw his hands up. "Then what exactly am I meant to do? If I try saying anything, they don't get it or don't listen or I just make things worse." He looked to Alison. "It's not like before with you and Thad Newton. Mom's Secretary of State, and this isn't just one person."

"No," Stevie said, "it's an attitude."

"I get it—"

"No, you don't." Alison shook her head. "You can't possibly understand." She thrust the photos at him, one by one, and he fumbled to catch them. "You don't have to worry that what you're wearing will give people the ' _wrong impression_ '; you don't have to deal with daily harassment just because you're a girl; you don't have to fear walking home alone at night, or maintain this constant vigilance because anyone might think you're ' _asking for it_ '."

No longer able to meet their gazes, Jason scowled at the floor, his face flushed with shame. "Dad said that Mom didn't want me to say anything."

" _Dad said, Dad said_ ," Alison echoed. "Like he understands."

"You saw what Mom looked like this morning," Stevie said. Eyes puffy, face drained. "She's obviously been crying. Just because she says nothing, it doesn't mean that she doesn't want to."

"And it doesn't mean that everyone else should stay silent too," Alison said.

Cats hissed and howled in the neighbour's yard, and engines droned from the road as cars sailed by. Jason tipped the last of the photos in the bin and then looked to his sisters. "Then what should I do?"

"Use your voice," Alison said, "and empower women to use their voices too."

* * *

 **Henry**

Henry was sat on the couch in the den, his feet up on the coffee table. He stared down at the book in his hand, whilst silent images flashed across the television screen. The darkness seeped in from outside, and a slight chill ruffled the curtains, but the low lighting of the lamps furnished the room with a cosy glow, like the embers of a campfire that danced with the shadows and chased them away into the night.

The cushions shifted behind him. He flinched, snapped out of his trance. Elizabeth's watch glinted as she slid her hand over his shoulder and down his chest before she leant in and kissed his cheek. He covered her hand with his own and lifted it to his lips. A kiss to the inside of her wrist. Her pulse fluttered against him, and his body flooded with a different kind of warmth; one not measured in degrees. He linked his fingers through hers and guided her around the end of the couch and down onto the cushion next to him.

With her feet tucked beneath her, Elizabeth rested her head against Henry's shoulder, whilst he wrapped his arm around her and traced circles through the sleeve of her blouse. "How was your day?" he asked, his voice muffled by her hair as he kissed the top of her head.

A silence settled between them, broken only by the faint music that drifted down the stairs. She moved her fingers idly over his shirt, the touch light yet tingling through the skin beneath. "Some guy wolf whistled at me during the presentation—"

Henry tensed, and her hand stilled.

"—but I managed not to have meltdown. That's something, I guess."

He frowned. "A journalist?"

She nodded.

"Well that's unprofessional."

"I think he's looking for a new profession after Daisy yelled at his editor." She eased away from him and then lay down, her head in his lap as she stared up at the ceiling, her feet rested against the arm of the couch. Her eyes were distant, drained, her voice hushed almost to a whisper. "Somewhere these lines get blurred. People post stuff online that they would never say in the real world, until one day it slips over and it's like the boundary never existed at all."

Henry stroked her hair, teasing out the soft strands. "There's still a line between right and wrong."

Her gaze shifted to meet his own, her eyes sharper now. "I think we both know that line's the blurriest of all." And the look she gave him made his heart pound.

How much had the contours of their own beliefs shifted in the last few years? Like maps constantly being redrawn to incorporate territories they have never known to exist until some unthinkable situation forced them to venture across those lands.

"Harassment's still harassment," he said, and he clutched the hand that rested atop her stomach.

"But a comment, a tweet, a wolf whistle…they're not the same as what Andrada did." She held his eye for a moment, and his breath stilled.

Another thing that they ought to talk about that she had swept away, tidied into some closet of her mind, until it grew and contorted and burst out, no longer able to be contained. Or perhaps it had already escaped, another subtler layer beneath the outrage and grief.

She shook her head, and her gaze returned to the ceiling; the moment gone. "Russell came to the office, all but blamed me for what happened—"

"It's not your fault." He squeezed her hand and brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

"I know," she said, her voice flat. "He demanded that I fix it, move the narrative away from ' _I would, wouldn't you?_ '. But maybe you can't do that. Maybe it will always be there, so long as people hold these beliefs."

He frowned. Some words cannot be unwritten, but maybe, just maybe they could be reclaimed.

"Did you speak to Will?" Her voice cut through his thoughts.

"Hmm?" His mind raced to catch up with the conversation. "Oh yeah. He said he wouldn't miss it for the world."

Elizabeth groaned. She rolled onto her side, and then eased herself up to sitting and perched on the edge of the cushion.

Henry rubbed her back through the silk of her blouse. "I thought you wanted him to come."

"I do, but he's going to make jokes about me getting old." She glanced over her shoulder and caught his eye. "One comment about hip replacements and I swear I'll throttle him."

Henry's lips twisted into a smirk. "If you ask me, your hips work just fine."

* * *

 **Jason**

Hidden in the shadows cast by the railings, Jason hugged his knees to his chest. The music that floated down from Alison's room enveloped him and intensified his own pocket of silence. His parents chatted away on the couch, and the ease of their conversation said that they hadn't noticed his presence. Though their public displays of affection carved out an endless chasm of embarrassment, something about the way they talked—uninhibited, flowing, one mind gliding from thought to thought—soothed him, a kind of comfort blanket that he still clung to.

His mother shifted and lay down, only her feet now visible against the arm of the sofa. "Somewhere these lines get blurred. People post stuff online that they would never say in the real world, until one day it slips over and it's like the boundary never existed at all."

"There's still a line between right and wrong," his father said.

"I think we both know that line's the blurriest of all."

"Harassment's still harassment."

"But a comment, a tweet, a wolf whistle…they're not the same as what Andrada did."

Jason frowned, and his stomach clenched. _What had Andrada done?_

"Russell came to the office, all but blamed me for what happened—"

"It's not your fault."

"I know."

But it sounded as though she didn't believe that at all. Perhaps that's what Alison had meant about giving the ' _wrong impression_ '; the false notion that somehow his mother was responsible for other people's thoughts.

"He demanded that I fix it, move the narrative away from ' _I would, wouldn't you?_ '. But maybe you can't do that. Maybe it will always be there, so long as people hold these beliefs."

 _It's an attitude._ An attitude that spawned crude comments, an acceptance of objectification, the erosion of women's worth. And what were the women in his life worth? His mother, his sisters, his friends. Worth more than silence, surely, worth standing up for. _Use your voice, and empower women to use their voices too._ But what about when speech wasn't enough? What do you do then? His mother had already given him the answer to that: _Symbols are louder than words._

Jason crept up the stairs. He grabbed the 'do me' skirt that his mother had discarded on the landing and then padded along the hall to Alison's door. He knocked. When she didn't answer, he pushed the door open just a fraction, enough to peek inside. Alison was sat at her desk. Her hand swept across the page as she sketched out the contours of her design.

"Hey," Jason said.

Alison looked up.

"Will you help me make something?"

"What?" Alison frowned.

Jason held up the skirt. "A symbol."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

 **Day Four**

 **Henry**

White light flooded through the slats of the blinds, a pristine backdrop for Elizabeth as she leant against the kitchen side, a mug of coffee clutched in both hands. Her gaze was dipped to the ground, and the memory of sleepless nights still hung in bruised smudges beneath her eyes. She looked up as Henry stepped off the stairs into the kitchen, and her expression warmed.

"You're up early." Henry held her waist as he kissed her cheek. "No more Twitter news?"

"No." She twisted round, and with her hip against the jut of the counter, she watched him as he poured his own coffee from the pot. "But according to the frantic texts I got from Daisy the whole wolf whistle thing has been turned into a meme and people are still sharing those photos." Her brow pinched, and her gaze drifted away from his.

He rubbed her arm. "It'll pass."

The corners of her lips tugged into a sad smile. "That was far more comforting a couple of days ago." She shook her head to herself, and the ends of her hair danced around her shoulders. But then footsteps bounded down the stairs, and she swept the pain from her face.

"Good morning." Stevie jumped off the last step into the kitchen. She sported a full-toothed grin, and her eyes shone as she looked at her parents.

"You're far too cheery for—" Elizabeth glanced at her watch. "—eight AM. You do know it's not Christmas, right?"

"Oh, this far outdoes Christmas," Alison said as she stepped down into the kitchen too. She and Stevie hovered near the bottom of the stairs. Something about the glee that lit up their faces unleashed a crawl of unease up Henry's spine. "Just wait until you see."

"See what?" Elizabeth said. She took a sip of her coffee and then choked. "Oh my God, Jason."

Henry's mouth dropped open. "Is that your mom's skirt?"

Jason was wearing the 'do me' skirt that Elizabeth had thrown out of her closet after it featured at number one in Russ Freyton's top ten. He had paired it with his usual sneakers, tee and plaid shirt. Standing in front of his sisters, he gave a twirl. "Alison adjusted it for me."

Henry clunked his coffee mug down on the side, before he had the chance to lose it from his grasp. "I'm not so concerned about how it fits you so much as why you're wearing it."

"I'm making a statement," Jason said. He looked at Elizabeth, and a solemn expression descended across his face. "You, and every other woman, should be able to wear what you want without being objectified. A skirt is just a skirt—it doesn't define you or determine your worth."

Elizabeth shook her head. "You can't wear that to school."

"Why not?"

Her voice cracked. "Because you'll get beaten up."

"So what if I do?" Jason's jaw clenched. "It's no different to what people have been doing to you all week. And maybe it'll force them to listen."

"Baby, I appreciate what you're doing," Elizabeth said, her expression pained, "but I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'll be fine." Jason shrugged. "Besides, the video's already up on YouTube."

"Video?" Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up. "What video?"

Jason wore a subtle smile. He motioned between himself and his sisters. "We made a video about the skirt and why it should be a symbol of empowerment and not a tool for objectification."

"It's already got over a thousand hits," Stevie said.

Alison tapped the screen of her phone. "Make that two thousand." She beamed at Elizabeth. "You should see the comments. All these people support you."

Elizabeth set her coffee cup down on the island counter and took the phone from their daughter. Without her glasses on, she squinted at the screen. "Wow." The word came out in a whistle of breath. She turned to Henry with a forced smile. "Daisy's gonna love this."

"Look, Mom," Stevie said, "we get that as Secretary of State you can't always stand up and say what you want to, you always have to think about the _optics_ , but this is about more than just you, it's about speaking up for what's right."

Elizabeth eyed them in turn and landed at last on Jason. "You're serious about this?"

Lips pursed, Jason nodded.

She let out a long breath and then pinched her brow as she shook her head to herself. She looked up at him. "Then fine." She lifted one finger. "But if one person so much as—"

"Mom, I'll be okay."

"You'd better be," she murmured. Then she strode across to him, wrapped him in her arms and peppered him with kisses until he squirmed. "Thank you." She pulled the girls into the hug too. "The three of you are incredible, you know that?"

"Of course we are," Alison said, her voice muffled by the embrace. "How could we be anything but with a mom like you?"

Still leant against the kitchen counter, Henry grinned at them—his wife, their children, their family—and he chuckled as his chest overflowed with a glow, like the light of a thousand candles coalescing at midnight mass. Perhaps on some level Elizabeth still sought her parents' approval, and though no one could give her that, maybe it was enough to know that those around her loved her, believed in her, stood by her, as though that could fulfil the final promises her father had made. _What I want you to know is that I'll be here to support you, always, and I'll be here when things get tough—because they will. And I'll be here, waiting for the day when you achieve all these things that I never thought possible, and when you come back to tell me that you've proved me wrong._

Elizabeth drew back from the hug and swiped at her eyes. She met their children's worried frowns with a watery smile. "Happy tears, I promise." A glance at her watch. "I've gotta go." Then she planted kisses to their foreheads in turn. "I love you guys so much." She patted Jason's cheek. "Stay safe. Any problems, just call."

Elizabeth grabbed her coffee from the side and took one last swig before she snatched the air near Henry's hand and beckoned him to follow as she strode towards the front door.

She shrugged on her coat, and Henry stepped forward to smooth down the collar. He skimmed his hands down to her waist and pulled her close. Then he looked into her eyes as he said, "You sure this is okay? It's not going to cause problems at work?" She might be fine with it, but the White House, Russell Jackson?

"Well, silence hasn't exactly worked," Elizabeth said. She gave a half-shrug. "And they do have a point." She tutted. "God, why did we ever encourage them to express their opinions or have free thought?" She flashed him a broad smile that reached her eyes, and the sparks that had been so dim over the past week now danced. She tugged at his tie and pulled him down to meet her lips. "I love you."

He smiled against her. "I like you okay too." Then he wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, and he nuzzled her nose. "I love you." He met her in a gentle kiss. His lips lingered in a silent promise— _I've got you_ —until she sighed and patted his chest.

"Please don't let Jason take any more of my skirts." She stepped backwards towards the door, and her voice lowered to an exaggerated whisper. "Not wishing to _objectify_ him, but he really doesn't have the legs for it."

Henry chuckled. He held his hand up, a brief wave, before she disappeared onto the porch.

When Henry returned to their bedroom, he caught sight of the business card he had discarded on the bedside table. He picked it up, stared at it for a moment and then tapped it against the edge of his fingers. The thought from the previous night drifted through his mind—how to move the narrative away from ' _I would, wouldn't you?_ '. _Some words cannot be unwritten, but maybe, just maybe they could be reclaimed._ Perhaps it was time that he stood up too.

* * *

 **Elizabeth**

The clock on the mantlepiece chimed twelve. Elizabeth leant back against the cushions of the couch as she dug her chopsticks through the carton and fished out a piece of chicken from beneath the noodles. Careful not to spill the sauce onto her blouse, she lifted it to her mouth.

Sat in the chairs on the opposite side of the coffee table, Kat held her own carton in one hand whilst she thumbed through the file in her lap, and Jay took a large bite of dumpling, his gaze fixed on the flickering pages. He stabbed his chopsticks at the file. Kat stopped. With his fist held to his mouth, he chewed quickly then swallowed. "What if we—"

There was a knock at the door, and before Elizabeth could call out, Daisy and Blake strode in. Blake fumbled with the television set in the corner, whilst Daisy walked over to the coffee table. She wrung her hands in front of her. "Sorry, ma'am—" She winced. "—but your husband's on the news."

"He's what?" Elizabeth said through a mouthful of noodles. "Why?" She chucked the carton down onto the table and twisted round to face the television whilst Blake searched through the channels. She switched her reading glasses for her normal frames and peered up at the screen.

The image of Henry appeared but then vanished again as Blake sped past the channel. Elizabeth flapped her hands. "Go back, go back."

Henry was sat behind the desk in a studio, swivelled round to face the interviewer. And—oh God—it was that tabloid reporter who had given Henry his card after Henry had refused to comment on ' _I would, wouldn't you?_ '.

"Hen-ry." Elizabeth groaned.

Blake hovered near the television set. "I think he was inspired by Jason's skirt video."

Elizabeth glared at Blake. "Not helpful." Her son posting a video on YouTube was one thing, but the husband of the Secretary of State giving an interview on national television…

The reporter frowned at Henry. "But your wife is beautiful, you must agree with that."

"Yes, she's beautiful in that she fits our culturally derived definition of physical desirability," Henry said, and Elizabeth pinched her brow. Baffling people with academese and drowning them in jargon was not going to win this argument. "I, like many people in our culture, agree that she's beautiful, but that's not what attracts me to her."

"No?"

"No," Henry said.

Elizabeth's gaze darted back to the screen.

His expression had softened, and his smile shone through his eyes. "She's funny, she's smart, she's passionate. She always tries her hardest to do the right thing, even when it seems impossible. She's a fantastic mother to our children, and she always puts our family first. She's strong, yet allows herself to be vulnerable. She doesn't hide her imperfections." Henry shrugged. "She's human. That's what attracts me to her."

Elizabeth rested her fist against her lips, hiding the smile that had blossomed. Okay, perhaps having her husband make a statement on television without prior warning was less than ideal, but having him talk about her like that made her heart melt (just a little).

"Would you rather us say that she's not beautiful?" the interviewer asked.

"I'd rather it wasn't an issue," Henry said. "I'd rather that people didn't comment on that. We don't comment on the appearance of the men in the administration."

The interviewer glanced down at his notes for a moment. "You yourself were named in the top ten of political arm candy." He returned his gaze to Henry. "How's this any different?"

"It's different because calling a man attractive doesn't detract from his achievements, whilst for a woman it's an either or situation. Either she's beautiful or she's good at her job, never both." Henry shook his head to himself. "Calling a woman beautiful acts to mask her achievements, to mask her true value. Especially when that sentiment is expressed in such a crude way."

"So what would you say in response to Mr Freyton's comments?"

Henry shrugged, and his lips twisted. "I'd say that the comments are crass and unpatriotic."

"Unpatriotic?" The interviewer echoed with a frown.

"My wife works tirelessly to preserve the American way of life, giving people like Mr Freyton the freedom to speak publicly and to say whatever he likes. I think it's a shame that he should choose to abuse such a privilege, especially when he uses it to attack the very person who has afforded him such rights." Henry's gestures animated him as he spoke. "Mr Freyton says that he has a profound appreciation for women, but his actions over the past few days have shown no appreciation for my wife as a person or for all the incredible things that she does." His lips pulled taut for a second, a facial shrug. "Perhaps if men like him weren't given so much air time, the women of our country would feel empowered to stand up and to make a difference in the world. Perhaps that's what we need: to embrace their perspectives, their talents, their thoughts, rather than reducing their value to nothing more than their looks."

"That's a rather feminist stance."

Henry looked the interviewer straight in the eye. "A feminist is anyone who believes in equality for all those who identify as women. So would I call myself a feminist? Yes, I would. Wouldn't you?"

And Elizabeth laughed, unable to suppress it as it bubbled up and mixed with the glow that already warmed her heart.

"Thank you, Dr McCord."

As the cameras cut away from Henry, Blake pointed at the screen, his brow furrowed in a deep frown. "Did he just—"

"Reclaim the hashtag?" Elizabeth grinned. "Yes, he did." She looked to Daisy. "Daisy—"

But Daisy was tapping away at her tablet screen. "Already on it, ma'am." She met Elizabeth's eye for a second. Pure sass. "Russ who?"

* * *

"I'm home," Elizabeth called out as the door clunked shut behind her. Peals of laughter rippled through from the kitchen. She kicked her shoes off, hung her coat over the bottom of the banister and then padded through. The smell of molten cheese and freshly baked garlic bread greeted her.

Stood at the kitchen island, Henry ran a pizza wheel through a Margherita. She stopped in the doorway, leant against the frame and then waited. He placed the blade down, twisted round and met her with a broad smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and she couldn't resist the smile that tugged at her own lips. She held his gaze. "Well played, Dr McCord. Very well played."

The tension between them thickened, a dare surfacing—who would make the first move? She bit down on her bottom lip. His eyes darkened, and his fingers curled over the edge of the counter.

"Mom," Alison called through from the den.

"Coming," Elizabeth called back, but still she held Henry's eye. She sidled past him, bumping her hip against his, and she joined the kids in the den. The heat of his gaze prickled over her skin, and when she glanced back, he was still staring.

The kids were sat on the sofa, the girls at either end with Jason in the middle. Elizabeth leant over the back of the couch and kissed each of them in turn. "What happened to the skirt?" She nodded to the jeans Jason that was wearing.

"I think I made my point," Jason said. Then he folded his arms across his chest as he smirked. "Though I'm not afraid to admit it was surprisingly comfortable."

Elizabeth let out a sharp laugh. "Next time try it with stilettos."

"Look, Mom," Alison said, and she pressed her phone into Elizabeth's hand. The screen showed the YouTube video and the rising hit count. "It's crazy. I thought it was big this morning, but then after Dad's interview it went wild."

"' _I would, wouldn't you?_ ' is all over Twitter," Stevie said, "only now it's about feminism, not, you know—" She rolled her eyes. "— _doing_ you."

"I saw," Elizabeth said. She handed Alison back the phone and then motioned for them to join her as Henry carried the pizza and garlic bread through to the dining area. "Daisy started promoting the hashtag as soon as the interview was over." She sank down into the chair next to Henry's at the head of the table. No sooner had she rested her hand against the wooden surface than Henry covered it with his own and intwined their fingers. "I think she was glad that she was finally allowed to speak out." She snatched a piece of garlic bread from the plate and bit down on it with a loud crunch; the butter oozed out and coated her tongue with its rich warmth. She spoke through her mouthful. "God knows she's been wanting to."

"What did the White House have to say?" Henry asked. He studied Elizabeth as he sipped on his glass of red wine.

Elizabeth offered him a taut smile. "I'm going with ' _no news is good news_ '." And when Henry's expression faltered just a fraction, she lifted her thumb and rubbed the side of his little finger. "Silence from Russell is a form of praise in itself." She looked to Jason on the opposite side of the table. "How was the whole skirt thing at school?" She helped herself to a slice of pizza, the strings of mozzarella stretching as she freed it from the neighbouring pieces.

Jason shrugged. He finished chewing before he said, "A few jeers." A smile tugged at his lips. "But then Mrs Henshaw gave this whole speech on the rise of feminism. I think she lost them when she started talking about the different waves though."

Alison brushed off her hands over her plate. "What did Stephen say again?"

Jason paused, a slight frown. Then his face brightened. "Oh yeah." He laughed. " _What, like secret handshakes_?"

Elizabeth almost choked on her mouthful of pizza. She raised her hand to her lips as she fought to swallow it down. Henry was laughing too, his eyes glistening. And as the kids continued to chatter away, their voices like the rise and fall of a melody—an ode to joy—her chest filled with a rush of love, a kind of warmth that tingled through her. _All these messy feelings_ , Will had once said. Though in that moment it couldn't be more simple. Family. Love. Home.

* * *

"So you liked my interview then?" Henry was sat on the end of the chaise longue, his gaze trained on the entrance to the bedroom. The lights were dimmed, except for the soft glow of the bedside lamps, and the curtains ruffled with the wafts of cool air that drifted in through the windows.

Elizabeth shut the door behind her and then leant back against it. She eyed him slowly, letting her gaze drag over him. "Guy standing up for me on national television?" She lowered her voice to a breathy whisper. "Big turn on." Then she flashed him a wicked grin.

Henry's eyes glinted. He stood up, and with three quick strides, he closed the gap between them. His hands found her hips and pinned her against the door, whilst his lips moved against her own; the kiss soft yet demanding.

Elizabeth threaded one hand through his hair, whilst the other toyed with the strands at the nape of his neck. He sucked gently on her lower lip, and she opened her mouth in response. As his tongue met hers, he eased her away from the door and nudged her backwards towards the bed.

Elizabeth broke the kiss and flopped down onto the mattress. She held Henry's gaze as he climbed on top of her, and at the glimmer in his eye, her pulse quickened.

No sooner had his weight pressed down on her than he rolled them, so that she landed on top, straddling his waist. She quirked an eyebrow at him, and with a smirk, he shrugged. "In the interest of female empowerment."

Elizabeth chuckled. She leant down to kiss him, and her hair swept forward into her face. She paused and then cupped his cheek and brushed her thumb over his lips. The darkness in his eyes softened. "What is it?" he said, and his grip on her waist tightened.

Elizabeth shook her head, and the ends of her hair quivered across his skin. She smiled down at him—everything was fine. "You're so beautiful," she whispered, and she nuzzled his nose before placing a tender kiss to the corner of his lips.

He cradled her head and eased her back enough that he could look her in the eye. " _You're_ beautiful," he said. His other hand skimmed up from her waist and covered her heart. "All of you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

 **Day Five**

 **Elizabeth**

Fingertips drew idle patterns up and down Elizabeth's side; the touch hummed through her skin and beckoned her from the embrace of sleep. The scent of sweat and sex lingered in the air, a heady mix in the hazy morning light. Her eyelids fluttered open.

Henry's gentle smile greeted her, his hair still tousled from the night before. "Happy birthday."

Elizabeth groaned. She rolled onto her back, away from his warmth. With her hand pressed to her forehead, she stared up at the ceiling. "God, I'm old."

Henry propped himself up on his elbow. He slipped his other hand beneath the hem of her t-shirt and rested his palm against her stomach. "You're not old." He brushed his thumb back and forth, back and forth, a lulling caress. Then he rolled on top of her and dipped down, a growl to his voice as his hot breath tickled her ear. "And there are some advantages to being the birthday girl."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. A slight smile played on her lips. "Oh really?" She ran her hands up his sides and then smoothed them over the back of his tee. "What do you have in mind?"

His eyes glinted, and he roamed kisses down her neck. "Cards," he said, his voice muffled as he paused to suckle at her pulse. Her breath hitched. "Cake." He descended over her chest and dusted kisses through the cotton of her shirt. "Candles." He teased up the hem and exposed her tummy button. Then he dipped his tongue inside, and her stomach shivered. His gaze flicked up to meet her eye—a dangerous look. "Presents."

A slight tremor quivered through her voice as she said, "What kind of presents?"

"Very special presents," he said. And as his wet kisses slipped lower and lower, she squirmed and laughed beneath him.

 _Knock, knock, knock._ Henry stopped, and Elizabeth propped herself up on her elbows. He glanced up at her, eyes white, just as Stevie called through, "Is it safe to come in?"

"Just a minute," Elizabeth called back. There was nothing _safe_ about the position their children would find them in were they to walk through that door right now. She reached down, cupped Henry's jaw and offered him a soft smile. "Later."

He nodded and crawled up her body. His lips found hers, a promise— _Later_. Then he settled back against the headboard and drew her against his chest.

"Come in," she said.

Stevie nudged the door open, and with a slightly stilted gait, she carried a tray of croissants and steaming mugs of coffee inside. She kept her gaze on the cups, her brow furrowed with concentration as she fought to stop them from spilling. "I come bearing coffee and carbs."

"My favourite," Elizabeth said, and her stomach rumbled in agreement. "Thank you, baby."

"You're welcome." Stevie balanced the tray on the bench at the end of the bed, and then she grinned at Elizabeth. "Happy birthday."

At the same time, Alison gambolled into the room, Jason trailing paces behind. "Happy birthday, Mom!" She flung her arms around Elizabeth and pressed a kiss to her cheek before Jason leant in for a hug and kiss too.

"Happy birthday," Jason said. When he pulled back, he eyed Elizabeth's mussy hair before his gaze fell to the disheveled sheets. He raised his eyebrows at her and Henry. "Seriously? Isn't that a bit clichéd?"

"There's a lot to say for clichés," Elizabeth said, and Henry pressed his lips to the curve between her shoulder and neck whilst he wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.

Sat at the end of the bed, Stevie crunched her teeth into a croissant. She looked up at Jason. "Didn't you ever think about why your birthday's nine months after Mom's?"

* * *

"Good morning, ma'am." Blake met Elizabeth in the foyer of the State Department, unusual in itself, but then he offered her a wide smile—too wide—and her stomach dropped.

"Oh God." Elizabeth groaned, and her head fell back. "You've organised a surprise, haven't you?"

"Yes, ma'am." Blake's expression faltered and then fell. He hurried after her as the elevator doors opened and she strode inside. She hit the the button for the seventh floor, and he turned to her. His hands fidgeted in front of him. "It's nothing big, I promise…well maybe it's a little bigger than I planned…"

"How big?"

"Just the seventh floor," Blake said.

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at him.

He squirmed under her gaze. "There might be some banners…and singing…and maybe a few party horns…"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Well, there had better be cake."

"Of course, ma'am."

Elizabeth shook her head to herself and murmured, "At least I can eat my way through the embarrassment."

The lift dinged for the seventh floor. The doors slid open to reveal the staff, and they met Elizabeth with a cry of "Happy birthday!" mingled with an undertone of "Surprise!".

"Hey," Elizabeth said, and she hugged each of her team in turn, "what's with the ties?"

Blake, Matt, Jay and Kat all wore matching pink ties. And a glance through the corridors showed that others sported them too.

"Solidarity, ma'am," Kat said.

"They're not quite skirts," Jay said, "but we hoped you'd appreciate the gesture."

"We wanted you to know that we stand by you, ma'am," Matt said. "Especially against Twitter trolls."

"And—" Kat's face brightened. "—we've had word from the White House. What with your husband hijacking the hashtag, Russell Jackson says that we can go ahead with the announcement about the British trade deal."

Elizabeth grinned. "Now, you see, that's the only birthday present I need."

* * *

 **9 PM**

A chill clung to the night air and trapped the trace of smoke. Each breath weighed heavy and burned through Elizabeth's lungs. She hugged her coat around her, but even the thick wool was not enough to fend off the shiver that crawled up her arms. In the garden, the trees rustled with the secrets of the breeze, and the grass swayed and churned.

She lowered herself down onto the patio step, next to Will. He glanced at her and offered her the flicker of a smile. Then they settled into a familiar silence, a language all of its own.

"I was thinking, the other day," Will said, "about the cakes our mother made us bake."

Elizabeth snorted. "You get flashbacks about them too?"

Will shook his head to himself. "I'm not quite sure how they could be so burnt and flat yet still raw inside."

"Or how they were more eggshell than cake." Elizabeth leant forward and hugged her knees as she twisted round to face him. "Do you remember how we had to smother them—"

"In chocolate frosting—" Will nodded. "—just to make them edible."

They shared a grin, but their smiles soon withered and faded to grim, like the embers of a campfire dying and disappearing into the night. Elizabeth swallowed, and her gaze fell away.

Will let out a long breath. "God I miss them."

Elizabeth linked her arm through his and squeezed tight. "Me too."

The wind gusted and sent a shower of leaves skittering to the ground. They tumbled over the grass, swept along on the currents, their dance a testament to the unseen forces of the world.

"I couldn't save them," Will said, and his gaze followed the leaves too, "and you couldn't prove whatever it is that you needed to prove. Like it or not, they're the reason we do the things that we do."

Elizabeth dipped her chin, and her hair fell forward as she buried her gaze in her lap. She cleared her throat, but her voice still rasped. "Do you ever think what would have happened…"

"If they had survived?" Will asked, and she nodded. "Sometimes."

"I do," Elizabeth said. "And then I think about how I wouldn't change what I have now for the world, and how maybe, if I was ever given that choice—save them and set out on that path, or stick with my life now…" She shook her head to herself. The words were there, burning her tongue, but to speak them aloud would be a blasphemy all of its own.

"I know." His voice was so soft it was almost lost to the breeze. If only they could surrender those thoughts to the darkness too. "You know, one of the last things that they said to me was how they wished I was more like you." He gave a bitter chuckle, and Elizabeth turned her gaze to him. His eyes glistened, or perhaps just mirrored the sheen of her own. "We all have our faults, and no matter what else they said to you, they were proud of you."

Elizabeth looked away. She turned her face up to the stars, only the brightest visible above the haze of city lights. "Do you believe that they're out there somewhere and that they can see who we've become?"

A burst of laughter rippled out of the house and diffused into the pause. The sound was foreign, so light that it jarred against the weight that hung over the garden.

"I used to," Will said, "but now…I don't know…You?"

"I like to think so," Elizabeth said, "but sometimes, after all the things I've seen, it feels like nothing more than a fairytale, something to soften the bluntness of reality." She let out a sharp sigh. How comforting it must be to have faith in something bigger than that what we can perceive. She shook her head to herself and let the thought go. "I see them in the kids though, and in you and Annie. Maybe that's all I can hope for."

"Maybe it's enough." He rested his hand against her knee. "For what it's worth, I'm proud of you. I know it's not the same—"

Elizabeth met his gaze. "That's worth a lot, Will."

Will nodded, and his lips softened into a smile. It was the things that they never said that they needed to hear the most.

Elizabeth swallowed, but her throat caught. "I was thinking about going back to visit them, maybe take the kids. If you want to come…"

"I'd like that," Will said, and his eyes shone. He eased up to standing and offered her his hand. "Now perhaps we ought to join all the normal people inside. After all, you only turn fifty once."

"You see—" Elizabeth patted his arm. "—I was thinking maybe I could eke it out for a few years. No one needs to know, right?" But she let him drag her inside.

* * *

 **2021**

 **Elizabeth**

The clipped grass of the cemetery stood stiff beneath the arching boughs of leafless trees. The late afternoon mist had already descended, and it wove in and out of the tombstones. Elizabeth knelt down at the edge of her parents' graves. She placed the white lilies—her mother's favourites—on the ground and then rested her hand against her father's headstone.

 _If you want to reach for the stars, reach for them. If you want to compete with men, do it. Hell, if you want to be the first female president, go for it. What I want you to know is that I'll be here to support you, always, and I'll be here when things get tough—because they will. And I'll be here, waiting for the day when you achieve all these things that I never thought possible, and when you come back to tell me that you've proved me wrong._

"Maybe you were right to worry," Elizabeth whispered, "and life is certainly more complicated than I ever imagined, but I wish you could've seen today, I wish you could've been there with me, and maybe it doesn't even matter now, but I wanted you to know that I did it—" She swallowed, the words empty on her tongue. "—I proved you wrong."

The breeze brushed over her and lifted the delicate fragrance of the lilies into the air. She breathed it in, filling her lungs with the scent of flowers and soil, the dampness of the mist, the bitter chill. She shivered. She looked over her shoulder, seeking her husband's warmth, and Henry stepped forward and offered her his hand. They stood together, facing the graves, Henry behind her, his arms snug around her waist. His breath fanned hot against her ear as he murmured, "Madam President."

Elizabeth chuckled, and the soft sound faded into the afternoon. "It's going to take a while to get used to that."

"I reckon you've got a good eight years." He pressed a kiss to her cheek and then rested his chin atop her shoulder. "Did you tell them?"

She nodded. Her heart sank. "It doesn't hurt any less though."

"Maybe not now, maybe not ever. But maybe that's okay."

Elizabeth twisted round in his arms, and resting her palms against his chest, she met his eye.

" _Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional_." His hands slipped beneath her coat, and his fingers fluttered against the small of her back. "Maybe you'll always carry this pain with you—maybe it's a fundamental part of who you've become—but so long as you use it, you can transform it, you can—"

"Make it beautiful?" Elizabeth's breath escaped and fogged in the air.

Henry nodded. The corners of his lips turned upwards, and his eyes held a playful glint. "Or powerful, or inspirational, or a force for change…" She arched her eyebrows at him. "You can make it whatever you want it to be. The world's yours, babe—Madam President." He grinned and leant in to peck her lips.

She patted his chest. "I guess now I've got a lot more people to prove wrong."

"And millions rooting for you." He took hold of her hands, and clutched them to his heart. "I'm rooting for you. And I promise to stand by you and to hold your hand when things get tough."

In the background, robins chittered as they bobbed in the highest branches of the frost-dusted trees. She rubbed her thumbs over his knuckles. "We can do this, can't we?"

"Of course we can." He offered her a smile so warm that it melted the worries, like snows yielding to the first true sunshine of spring. Then he lifted her wrist so he could glance at her watch. "Though if we don't get a move on, we'll be late for the ball, and I promised Ali I'd have you back in time for styling."

Elizabeth groaned.

"Come on, babe; it'll be fun." He wrapped his arm around her waist, and held her close as he guided her back to Marine One. "We'll get dressed up, have our first dance—" He dipped down so that his lips brushed the shell of her ear. His voice tingled through her. "—have a little afterparty of our own…" She laughed, and he stopped and pulled her round to face him. And his smirk and the twinkle in his eye spoke the words before he had the chance to say them. "I'd like that, wouldn't you?"

 **The End**

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope that you enjoyed this story. As I mentioned at the beginning, I'm publishing another two stories today as well, so check them out. If you have a moment to leave a review, it would be very much appreciated.


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